


Brute Force

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: The Brute Force universe [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e17 The Honorable Ones, Post-Episode: s03e21-22 Zero Hour, Post-Episode: s04e10 Jedi Night, Post-Episode: s04e15-16 Family Reunion – and Farewell, Slow Burn, spoilers for just everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 95,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28447671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: That one fic where Kallus is Force-sensitive.(The adult-rated content starts in chapter 8, if you're here for that.)
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Series: The Brute Force universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121480
Comments: 287
Kudos: 277





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sempaiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sempaiko/gifts).



> I accidentally power-watched all of Rebels and whoops now I have a new favorite ship. Does this count as a ship when it's canon? I think it does.
> 
> This'll probably go into adult-rating territory later, but for now, enjoy some relationship-building.
> 
> Dedicated to Sempaiko because hoooooooooooly cow. Your art inspires, to say the least.

**Brute Force**

_part i_

Ezra sticks close to Zeb, afterwards, always does whenever one of their crew is rescued from what most _sane_ sentients would refer to as almost certain death, doesn’t even try to act like he _isn’t_ clinging, his awkward teenage affection sort of sweet, in a weird, _Ezra_ kind of way. He actually _hesitates_ when Kanan calls him down to the cargo hold for lightsaber practice, goes all prickly when he casts a quick glance over at Zeb and sees Zeb watching him, catching him being attached, and that’s more the Ezra Zeb’s used to but he takes pity on the kid all the same, wandering into the hold a few minutes after Ezra’s gone down to practice, lounging in the upper doorway while Ezra and Kanan jump around and swat at each other with their lightsabers.

“Focus, Ezra,” Kanan scolds after he’s gotten the killing strike for the third time in a row. “You’ve _got_ to focus, or the blade --”

“-- will get away from me, yeah, I know,” Ezra says. “I know.”

Kanan sighs and backs off, going back to starting position. “Again,” he says.

He’s in a mood by the time Hera’s announcing their approach to their current hideout, his frustration mirroring Ezra’s, both of them silent and downcast as they descend the gangplank to the warmth of mid-morning, Kanan dragging Ezra out for more training straight away. Zeb helps Hera unpack the _Ghost,_ then grabs a pouch of water and goes out to keep an eye on his friends, relishing the opportunity to stretch his legs, to feel a breeze against his fur that _doesn’t_ make his muscles want to curl in on themselves, doesn’t throw shards of ice crystal into his eyes. He finds a nice sun-warmed rock-face to lean against as he watches Kanan and Ezra spar, lets the warmth seep into him, almost like a drug, and just as soothing besides.

Kanan’s not taking it easy, pushing the kid hard, barely missing him with his lightsaber each chance he gets, his voice rough with exertion as he barks reminders and warnings and instructions, every inch the hardline, unforgiving instructor he used to complain about enduring as a padawan, back when drinking and reminiscing were a more common activity aboard the _Ghost,_ back before the kids came into their lives and the work they did for the Rebellion started to become routinely deadly. Kanan’s working out the usual stress that follows when one of them has gotten captured, Zeb realizes as he watches and listens, no different from Ezra’s earlier clinginess, but Ezra doesn’t seem to see it for what it is, and he certainly doesn’t like it, his temper climbing with each parry he barely connects, each victory Kanan declares, and it’s not long before he snaps and starts to fight dirty, the street urchin he was when Zeb first met him surfacing from underneath the disciplined Jedi Kanan so desperately wants him to be.

And that’s when it happens, quick as the flash of sunlight reflecting off the lightsaber’s hilt: Ezra pushes Kanan’s face away, does it with barely a flick of his wrist, his palm angled back as if he means to uppercut Kanan in the jaw, and Kanan reacts as if he’s been struck, his head snapping backwards, straining his neck, for all that Ezra’s a full stride away from him, couldn’t’ve touched him if he’d tried. It’s a dirty trick, not what anyone with a scrap of dignity would call _honorable,_ and it doesn’t work for him, either, it just makes Kanan angry, which means Ezra’s momentary victory is _severely_ short-lived, means he’s stuck going through the basic forms as punishment.

Zeb hardly cares about that, his eyes wide as memory replays what he just saw, playing it alongside what he’s seen recently, wrapped up in the hazy blue shadows of Geonosis’ moon. Agent Kallus, injured but deadly still, armed with Zeb’s own bo-rifle, aiming at the creature trying to bite Zeb in half. Flicking his wrist _just_ like Ezra had just done -- saving it from the bite of snow that’d gotten into his sleeve, Zeb had thought at the time -- before firing. Hitting the creature below with perfect aim, despite the blast from the bo-rifle going wide. Nowhere close to where Zeb had thought the creature’s face had been.

 _It can’t be,_ he thinks, leaning back against the stone sweating the day’s heat at his back, its warmth comforting through his jumpsuit. _Just a coincidence. My overactive imagination, maybe. Remembering it wrong._

It bothers him, though, sticks in his teeth like a muja skin, seeping into his thoughts as he pushes himself back from the stone and returns to base to check on Sabine and Hera. Has him back out in the sun to watch Ezra train within the hour -- alone, now, Kanan having left Ezra to his own devices (and sulking, the kid is _definitely_ sulking) -- but all _that_ gives him is a sweaty nose and a headache, Ezra so focused on his fencing technique that he doesn’t use the Force again. Maybe didn’t in the first place, Zeb thinks. Kanan didn’t fuss at him for it, so maybe ...

He slinks back home when the headache grows powerful enough to make his stomach twist in on itself, tries to chase it away with a cup of caf, and that’s when Kanan finds him and takes the seat opposite him, lounging in a purposefully casual sprawl.

“Hey there,” he says when Zeb doesn’t speak, instead swallowing a punishing mouthful of caf. Shooting for a casual tone, and where it would likely work on others, Zeb’s known him too long to fall for it, knows the prelude to a lecture when he sees one. He sighs, his breath rippling the surface of the caf left in his cup, and looks Kanan in the eye.

“Get it out and over with,” he grumbles.

Kanan raises both eyebrows. “What?”

“Something’s on your mind,” Zeb says. “Let’s hear it.”

Kanan chuckles and loses the sprawl, leaning forward instead, his elbows braced against his thighs. “Funny,” he says, “I was coming in to say the same to you."

"How's that, then?"

"Couldn’t’ve been easy, waiting for us to come get you on that moon," Kanan says, "and ever since, you've been -- I thought you might want to talk about it, is all. Get it off your chest.”

Zeb runs a hand over his face. Kanan is the closest thing he has to a friend, a brother-in-arms. He _trusts_ the human, creepy Jedi powers notwithstanding, and in this particular case ...

“Nothing much to talk about,” he says after a moment’s consideration. "Escape pods are too small, the landing wasn’t graceful, and the moon was cold as hell. Feels like it went well, considering.”

“Mm.”

“I _have_ got a question for you, though, since you're here. About the Force."

Kanan's eyebrows have settled back down but are quick to return where they'd been moments before, pushing his surprise into the wrinkles of his forehead. A rare treat, catching him off-guard, but Zeb’s too distracted to enjoy it, the steady throb of headache punching against his cheekbones.

"Of course," Kanan says. "What's on your mind?"

“When you first realized you could use the Force,” Zeb says, slow and uncertain, the words awkward behind his fangs, “how’d you -- was it obvious that’s what it was? Did y’know that’s what was going on?”

“I didn’t,” Kanan says. “Didn’t realize I could use the Force, I should say. One of the Masters at the temple sensed my abilities and came to us about it. Until then, I’d thought I was completely normal.”

He’s a casualty of war who plays at Jedi teacher whenever he thinks anyone’s watching, a lovelorn kit head over heels for his captain whenever he thinks no one’s looking, and he doesn’t have any more clue what he’s doing minute to minute than any of the rest of them, but Zeb knows to keep that opinion to himself. “I see,” he says.

“Looking back on it, there were some signs, of course,” Kanan says, leaning back and stretching out his legs, his ankles popping as he flexes his feet. “I was unusually lucky at dice, and I knew when to take gambles and when not to at cards. Playing kids’ games, of course, nothing high-stakes. I had visions sometimes, too, but my family all thought that was just me having an active imagination. There wasn’t anything that told me I had the abilities I would grow into having as a teen and adult.”

“Huh,” Zeb says. “You weren’t out throwing your friends across canyons or anything before you had fur on your face, then?”

Kanan smiles, his breath warm with laughter. “No,” he says. “That came later, during my training. I didn’t take to it naturally, like some do.”

“You’d better not mean the brat,” Zeb says, rolling his eyes. His headache smacks him for it, so he douses it in a mouthful of caf. The caf’s gone lukewarm, which means the headache’s gotten the last laugh, and _that’s_ insult he didn’t need. He puts his cup down. “Ain’t something you can do by accident, then? Moving stuff, using just the Force. You have to be doing it on purpose?”

“Depends on the Force-user, and control definitely comes with age and dedicated training,” Kanan says. “Fortunately, without control, it’s hard to really use the Force anywhere _near_ its full potential, so you don’t often see Force-users who are untrained _and_ incredibly powerful. Not that I’ve ever heard of, anyway.”

Zeb snorts. “Ain’t that a relief.”

“It’s some comfort,” Kanan says. He offers Zeb what would probably be a fatherly smile, if he had kids of his own. “He’s not going to _hurt_ anyone with it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Zeb grumbles, half to himself, the bruises from his scuffle with Kallus aboard the escape pod still singing for his attention any time he moves just wrong. Or at all.

“C’mon, Zeb,” Kanan says. “He hasn’t been _that_ bad a roommate, has he?”

Zeb’s ears flatten, confusion stirring the headache in _exactly_ the wrong way. “Who?”

"Ezra. He hasn’t --" Kanan frowns. "That's -- I thought that's who you were asking about."

 _It's not_ almost makes it out of Zeb’s mouth before he can catch himself, the words reverberating so loudly in his brain that he braces himself against the certainty that Kanan’s heard the thought, but Kanan’s sabacc-face isn’t _that_ good and he’s looking at Zeb like he still _thinks_ he’s figured him out, so ...

"Didn't think I was being that obvious," he lies.

Kanan’s frown melts into a look of amusement he’s not doing a particularly good job of concealing. “I know you better than you think,” he says, shrugging. "You could've just _said."_

"Yeah, well." Zeb sighs, leaning back, his neck finding an angle that, for a blessed second, grants him reprieve from the headache, for all that it makes the bruising on his mid-back grumble angrily against his spine. "Didn't want to worry you, y’know how it is. I ain't got a problem with the kid. Outside the usual, anyway."

“It’s okay to be unsettled by his abilities."

“I ain’t.”

“You were watching today. While he was practicing," Kanan prompts.

Right. “I guess, yeah.”

Kanan sighs. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Zeb,” he says. “Please?”

An honest offer. Zeb almost feels bad for how relieved he is to have Kanan off the scent. “‘M just curious, I guess,” he says. “Roomed with the kid a while now, and he doesn’t bring it up. His abilities, or how he’s training up on ‘em. You don’t either, so I thought maybe it was something you don’t talk about. Your kind. Jedi.”

“To the contrary, I’m happy to talk about it as much as you’d like,” Kanan says. He nods to the cup on the table between them, the overhead light glinting dully in the surface of the caf. “Let me warm that up for you, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

\---

Everything Kanan knows turns out to be a _lot,_ and absolutely none of it useful the next time Agent Kallus shows up in the same star system Zeb and his team are trying to inhabit, this time saving Sabine's scrawny hide and sending a message along through her to Zeb _("he used your full name, it was kriffin' weird,"_ Sabine reports) that they're even now, and it's tempting, _sore_ tempting, to ask Sabine for details, even after she's told them all she knows, but Zeb resists, keeping his mouth shut until Ezra picks up on his mood and decides to make a joke about it.

"Since when've you got an imperial _boyfriend?"_ he says, coming into the hangar where Zeb’s working.

"Since when've you forgotten the rule about not talking where I have to hear you," Zeb says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m a rebel, I live to break the rules,” Ezra says with all the dramatic flare he usually uses to piss off their Imperial captors. Which would be kind of funny -- usually is -- except that he immediately follows it up with: “What’d you do for an _Imperial_ that put him in your debt?” and Zeb would be tempted to give in and _actually_ swat him this time, but Ezra’s looking at him with real, genuine curiosity in his big blue eyes when Zeb looks over at him, maybe has a little bit of concern wrinkling his forehead, his tendency to be distrustful of everyone rarer than it was when he first joined Phoenix Squadron, but not entirely gone, even with his chosen family, and that --

Zeb sighs and sets down the hydrospanner he’d been using, takes a seat on the row of crates he’ll need to unpack as soon as he’s done with his current task. “I had a chance to kill him once,” he says after a moment’s thought, unearthing the version of events he’d practiced in case Hera or Kanan asked questions along the same line. “Kallus. He was injured and unarmed, and I could’a dispatched him, easy, but ... it didn’t seem right, taking advantage. So I let him live, patched him up enough that the elements wouldn’t kill him before he and I got the chance for a fair rematch.”

Ezra’s eyes have gone comically wide, his mouth hanging open and everything. “After all the times he’s tried to kill us?” he squawks, finally.

“Yeah, well. Didn’t seem right, like I said.”

Ezra gusts a sigh that reaches the fur on Zeb’s forearm and ruffles it. _“You_ don’t seem right,” he says.

There’s a joke there about how with Hera at the helm he’s never been left, but it doesn’t come to him fast enough, so Zeb lets it go. “Thought Kanan’d filled your ear already with the whole mercy-and-justice bit he subscribes to,” he says. “The Jedi way and all that. Figured that’d include _not_ killing someone when they’re unarmed and injured.”

“He has, but --” Ezra flops down at Zeb’s side, close enough that he’s almost leaning into him, but not quite. “C’mon. It’s _Kallus.”_

Zeb reaches over and gives him a good ruffling. “Maybe I was saving the honor’a dispatching him for you,” he says once he’s made a complete mess of Ezra’s hair. “Which is you owing me one, by the way.”

“No it’s not,” Ezra says.

“Sure it is,” Zeb says. “Unless I get him first.”

“You won’t.”

“Wanna bet on that?”

Ezra’s entire face breaks into a grin. “You’re on,” he says.

\---

Their bet falls by the wayside after Kallus saves Ezra and Kanan both on Lothal, Ezra’s entire _being_ practically vibrating with excitement as they return to the _Ghost_ and share the news that Fulcrum is none other than Kallus himself, hiding behind his Imperial rank and reputation to feed the Rebellion the best intel they’ve gotten in -- forever, Zeb thinks, combing through memory of their other Imperial defectors.

“We still got to beat him up, though,” Ezra reports, putting his feet up on the dejarik table for all of two seconds before Hera swats at him, gets him to sit properly. “I threw him across a room. It was _awesome.”_

“If he decides to turn us in, now, I’d like the record to show that it’s because of Ezra,” Sabine says. “Wonder what made him change sides like that? After all the times he’s tried to kill us ...”

“I’m less concerned with that and more interested in what we can do with the intel he can provide,” Kanan says, saving Zeb from the pointed look Ezra’s giving him. “A high-ranking Agent like that, working directly with Grand Admiral Thrawn -- that’s a _hell_ of a catch.”

“Long as it doesn’t come _with_ a catch,” Ezra says.

“It won’t,” Kanan says. “I’m sure of it.”

He’s right, of course -- always is, maddening though that often is. It’s barely a year later that Kallus saves them at Atollon, risks his fool neck several times over in doing so, his body marked over with all the usual hallmarks of Imperial torture as he exits the _Ghost,_ only resisting a little when Zeb comes over to prop him up, to help him walk to medical for treatment. A fitting exit from the Empire, one Zeb's seen from plenty of other Imperial defectors, but it’s unpleasant to see, all the same, pity pulling at Zeb's gut as he watches Kallus struggle to climb up into the examining table, breathless as the medi-droid comes over to initiate his evaluation.

Kallus is stronger when he’s released from medical a few hours later, able to walk under his own power, as stiff and straight as any Imperial Zeb’s ever seen, but it’s not _his_ walk, the hard set of his shoulders and tightness of his gait speaking to pain he’s enduring, injuries he’s hidden away under the sweater and vest replacing his old Imperial uniform, ill-fitted to his broad build, his quietly understated strength. His eye is still swollen and dark with bruising, so similar to the uneven swelling along his jaw line that Zeb’s relatively certain he’s hiding bruises beneath his fur. Looks like it hurts, almost as badly as the cold treatment he receives from the rebels he passes on his way to the mess hall, the suspicious glances he’d have to be blind not to see.

He sits alone in the mess, choosing a table towards the back of the room, and keeps his head down as he eats. Doing his best to be invisible, which is ridiculous, given his build and his bright ginger hair, and unnecessary to boot, has Zeb feeling _sorry_ for him, of all things, so he collects his own rations and strides across the mess, intent on putting it right as best he can.

He’s gotten the drop on Kallus only a precious few times before and gets it again now, Kallus actually startling a little when Zeb takes the chair opposite him, as though he’d not noticed him approaching. He offers Zeb a pained half-nod in greeting and tries to sit up straight, only wincing a little when that proves to be a poor idea.

“Good to see you again, Garazeb,” he says, his voice low and even.

“Even better to see you not shooting at me,” Zeb says, and to his relief, Kallus chuckles quietly, taking the joke in the spirit it was intended. “Sawbones get you all patched up?”

“Yes, to the extent they could,” Kallus says. “I should be fully healed in a month’s time, fit for duty.” He looks around the mess. “If your rebellion will have me.”

“‘Course we will,” Zeb says. “It’s good to have you on our side.”

“Yes, well. It’s either to your credit or your blame that I’m here,” Kallus says, taking a bite and chasing it with a long drink of caf, the movement of his jaw as he chews throwing into harsh relief just _how_ badly he’s bruised under his fur. “I will say, it’s nice to be out of the uniform, finally.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Zeb says. “Kanan and the kid are always complaining when they have to go undercover, say the trousers ride up where they ain’t welcome.”

“By design, yes,” Kallus says. “I was a little disappointed that my uniform was taken from me. I’d been entertaining fantasies of burning the thing.”

The laugh that pushes its way out of Zeb’s throat catches him by surprise, comes out loudly enough to make Kallus startle, but he looks cautiously pleased that Zeb laughed at his joke once he’s recovered his composure, his exposed skin going a shade darker as he returns to his meal.

“I assume it will be cleaned and mended, to be used the next time infiltration of an Imperial base is called for,” he says, once he's washed down what's in his mouth with a swallow of caf.

“That’s what usually happens, yeah,” Zeb says. “Always good to get ‘em this way, off the back’a defectors. _Especially_ the ones who’ve tried to kill us in the past. That’s a special kind’a victory.”

Kallus winces. “Yes, about that --”

“We _did_ say we’d finish our fight fair ‘n square after you were fixed up, last time,” Zeb interrupts, before Kallus can stumble through any kind of apology. “Guessing that won’t be happening now.”

“Not immediately, no,” Kallus says, “but once my ribs are no longer broken, if you’d like to spar, I would be amenable to training with you.”

Zeb’s fur prickles with anticipation, sending a shiver down his spine, fanning out across his shoulders and arms. “Gonna hold you to that,” he says. “How long do human ribs take to heal?”

Kallus chuckles, the sound cutting off as quickly as it had come, punctuated by a wince and Kallus putting his hand to his side, his fingers curling over what must be the broken set of ribs. “More than an hour, at least,” he says, and that’s a joke, too, has Zeb smiling as he leans back to watch Kallus eat.

\---

The swelling’s gone from Kallus’ face when intel comes through, four days later, about an abandoned Imperial outpost rich with supplies the rebellion sorely needs, but he’s still moving like he hurts when he puts up his hand straight away and volunteers to help out, obviously wanting to _prove_ himself to his new comrades. But because he’s still got Imperial written all over him and most of the rebellion sympathizers are understandably wary of newly defected imps, nobody else volunteers, instead treating Kallus to a stony silence and wary looks, and the way his face goes stone-still, control a mask over whatever it is he’s feeling, makes Zeb’s skin crawl.

“Sounds like fun to me,” Zeb says, stepping forward before things can get too awkward. “And easy, too, now that we’ve got a former Agent on our side.”

A former agent who looks pale when he and Zeb meet in the briefing room to look over the schematic for the outpost half an hour later, his jaw clenched and posture tight. Probably unmedicated, Zeb thinks; he read or heard somewhere, ages ago, that imps generally don’t take pain medication, not unless they’re wounded badly enough to be put on medical leave, and even then being put on medical leave is a dangerous gamble, subjects the imp in question to scrutiny from their superiors and can mean demotion or assignment to a ship or outpost from which they’re not expected to return. Always plenty more ready to rise up and take the place of a malfunctioning cog in the wheel, and where that’s the sort of thing that would have once brought a smirk to Zeb’s face, now that it’s placed in front of him, wrapped up in a human he knows to have morals, a human hurting because he was trying to save Zeb and the others ...

He’s working out how he might offer Kallus painkillers (or better yet, just slip some into his caf so he’ll take them without knowing he’s taken them, though _that_ would require Zeb to ask someone what dosage would be safe for a human, and that'd lead to questions he's not confident he could lie his way through convincingly) when Kallus comes over to stand at his side, stifling a pained noise at the back of his throat as he extends his hand to pull up a closer view of one of the lower docking bays.

“This is likely to be the easiest, but also the most predictable, point of access,” he says. “We’re -- Imperial soldiers are trained to monitor for activity on any ground-level egress, so you’ll likely see motion detectors, if not turrets, here. All attached to an alarm system, which they'll set off, should they become disabled or tampered with.”

Zeb frowns. “Even on a site the Empire's abandoned?”

“Yes. There would be no point in removing automated security, the cost of doing so outweighing the cost of leaving it as-is, and where we’re not likely to run into any active offensive, it _will_ give away our position if we trip any of the alarms. That isn’t a risk worth taking.”

He rights himself and turns to face Zeb; a mistake that has him crumpling immediately, hissing a curse between his teeth as he does, his hand going to his side and gripping hard enough to wrinkle the fabric of his vest. He tenses when Zeb reaches out to steady him, his eyes bright with the wildness of a wounded animal, so Zeb relents, putting his hands up, watching silently as Kallus catches his breath, the hand not wrapped around his ribs gripping the holotable hard enough to sallow his knuckles.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, before Zeb manages to say a word. “I won’t be going on this mission. Just advising. I can do that perfectly fine in my current condition.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” Zeb says. “Could get you a chair, though. If you want.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Kallus says. His voice is wobbly where he’s trying not to sound out of breath, the hand at his side flexing like a nervous habit. “Our priority right now is to figure out an alternative entry route for the ground team.”

“All right,” Zeb says, returning his attention to the schematic before them. “If you say so.”

"I do," Kallus says, his voice low, weary.

The facility is less complex than some they’ve infiltrated before, but it’s still Imperial and that means it’s got more corridors than a Correllian myre nest, every point of access enveloped in layers of security Zeb’s tripped a hundred times but has never really had the time or interest to dissect, Kallus’ descriptions of how each piece connects into a damnably comprehensive security posture simultaneously impressive and disheartening, the way he sighs as he leans back once he's been over every inch of the schematic, tapping his fingertips against the edge of the holotable, mirrors Zeb’s own frustrations.

“I suppose it comes down to the least awful of our options,” he says, after a moment of contemplative silence, the pale blue of the schematic reflecting in his eyes, “which I think would be right here --”

He leans in to compensate once again for his lack of reach, but in doing so nudges his hip against the datapad he brought in with him, unbalancing it and sending it clattering to the floor. Only it doesn’t hit the floor; it stops, just shy of the metal grating, waiting the quarter-second needed for it to feel the embrace of Kallus’ hand, Kallus’ movements slowed by his injuries, his face pinched in pain as he rights himself, setting the datapad back where it belongs.

“As I was saying,” he says, “the least risky option will be here, on the second tier, where ...”

He carries on with his explanation, calm as anything, if a little breathless once again, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. So confident and cool that Zeb wonders if he’d’ve noticed it if Kallus hadn't been slowed by his healing ribs. He was right, he realizes, surprise giving way to curiosity that swells like a song stuck in his head whenever he and Kallus are in the same room together, has him waiting breathlessly for the next time he’ll get to see it.

Kallus, to either his detriment or his credit, doesn't make him wait long.

It's barely two days later that Zeb sees him press the button for entry to his bunk without touching it, his hands full with his datapad and a cup of caf, but he raises his elbow as if he’ll push the button, gets it close enough that the illusion is more than passable.

He closes an access hatch in the floor of the _Ghost_ half a day after that when he sees Chopper approaching, guaranteed to bump over it and make a fuss, but he waits until Chopper is _just_ approaching before pulling the hatch even with the surrounding floor, making it seem as if Chop’s wheels have snapped it shut.

The morning following _that,_ he's cleaning his bo-rifle when a group of pilots run past, one of them bumping against the table Kallus is sat at, hard enough that it _should_ have knocked at least the slide and extractor to the floor, but instead of falling, the slide merely clanks softly against the extractor before both pieces go still, defying the planet's gravity to stay where they belong, despite Kallus’ hands being occupied with the barrel he’d been oiling, his attention barely ruffled by the disruption.

He _maybe_ even keeps his hair out of his eyes when he’s cleared by medical to resume physical training a week after that, _definitely_ does when he and Zeb have their rematch a fortnight later, but Zeb’s too busy blocking and parrying and trying to get in a solid punch or kick of his own to call him on it.

It’s constant, he realizes after a month has passed and he’s lost count of the times he’s seen it, obvious despite Kallus’ careful subtlety, once he knows what to look for. Zeb catches himself wondering if the others have noticed and aren’t saying anything for some reason or another. He watches them, looking at Kanan and Ezra especially whenever Kallus uses his Force gift in their presence, watches the pilots and commanding officers and engineers and techs, some of whom he can tell are too deeply engaged in keeping the rebellion alive and as intact as they can to be bothered with anything else, but the rest ...

“What,” Kallus snaps at him one afternoon, looking up at Zeb from the mission plan they’ve been working on together, his hand wrapped loosely around the cup of caf he’s just avoided spilling by catching it with the Force. Less subtle than he usually is, and he must know it because that's his Agent voice, his cold authoritative bastard voice, which never fails to raise every hair across Zeb’s body.

“What yourself,” Zeb says.

“You’re _staring_ at me,” Kallus says, straightening and fixing Zeb with what Zeb has come to learn is a moderate glare on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. “Surely you of _all_ people must be confident in my loyalties by now.”

Zeb waves his words away with all the respect they deserve. Which isn’t any. “Ain’t that,” he says. “Just wondering how long it’s gonna take you to stop hiding your abilities and tell Kanan you want him to train you up like he has the kid.”

All the blood drains from Kallus’ face, throwing his fur into sharp relief, his skin almost glowing pale blue in the light coming off the holoprojector. That’s Not Good; Zeb’s seen that happen before, usually right before the human in question loses consciousness, but Kallus is full of surprises, always has been, and doesn’t do much more than stutter a little as he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zeb chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest, turning to face Kallus fully, maybe straightening up to his full height because he knows the effect that has on humans. Most of them, anyway. “Funny you survived as Fulcrum long as you did,” he says, “given you’re _that_ shit at lying.”

“I am _not --”_

“Ain’t like there’s anything _wrong_ with it,” Zeb continues, as if Kallus hadn’t spoken. “Two’a Phoenix Squadron’ve got it. Three now, counting you.”

The blood’s back, this time obscuring all of the spots speckled across Kallus’ nose and cheeks. He crosses his arms over his chest, fixing Zeb with the look that used to make Zeb’s blood run either cold or murderously hot. Usually the latter. Easily a five or six on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. “What makes you think I’m like _them,”_ he says.

Zeb tosses Kallus’ condescending tone off on a shrug. “Seen you do it,” he says. “You’re good at keeping it subtle, I’ll give you that, but I’ve been around Kanan long enough to know what it looks like when a Jedi’s being _subtle.”_

“I am _not_ a Jedi,” Kallus snaps and just like _that_ he’s back in his skin, the informant-turned-rebel, pride and annoyance and _conviction_ lifting his tone, bleeding urgency into each word. “I just -- I won’t use it. If you’ll please not tell the others.”

“What’s wrong with ‘em knowing?”

“Nothing. I’d just prefer they didn’t --”

“That one’a your Imperial things? Hang-somethings ... hangovers?”

“Hang-ups,” Kallus supplies, “and no it isn’t -- all right, _yes,_ it likely is. And I would _really_ prefer if we could --”

“Kanan ain’t picked up on it yet?”

A sigh. “He hasn’t, no.”

Zeb allows himself a grin. “That you know of,” and if Kallus wraps himself up in his own arms a little more tightly at that, well. “Calm down. He’d’ve said something if he had. Ain’t like it’s a big deal, anyway. Nobody here’s gonna have any problem with you being Force-sensitive.”

 _“I_ have a problem with it,” Kallus says, and the way his _entire_ face, all the way down his neck, past the collar of the shirt he’s wearing, goes _crimson_ at the sound of his own words, is adorably unsubtle, his gait stiff and controlled as he excuses himself and all but runs from the room, out into the afternoon breeze ruffling his hair. Zeb lets him go, chuckling a little as he replays the exchange in his mind, shaking his head.

He gives up on their mission plan project after deviling over it for another twenty or so minutes and goes out looking for Kallus, finds him sitting on one of the higher outcroppings overlooking the valley they’ve been calling _home_ for the past few weeks, his legs draped over the low slope of rock. He’s got his datapad in his hands and a frown pulling his eyebrows down over his gaze, but he isn’t working, his attention focused so completely on Ezra and Kanan training in the ravine that he actually jumps when Zeb says _hi there,_ fumbles the datapad a little. Has decency enough to drop the act, at least, sighing around his _hello, Garazeb_ and putting the databad back on his thighs where it had been, forgotten, his skin going dark like it does whenever someone manages to catch him off guard. Which no one does, other than Zeb, a point of pride Zeb’s kept to himself, just on principle.

“You ain’t gonna learn all that much, watching ‘em from up here,” Zeb says, sitting comfortably at Kallus’ side, as close as he can get while remaining in the sun, the warmth of it a blessing against his fur. “If that’s what you’re doing, anyway.”

“It isn’t,” Kallus says, the lie weak, obvious. Zeb does him the kindness of letting it slide.

"Ain't like they use the Force all that much when they're practicing with their 'sabers, either," Zeb tells him.

Kallus sighs. "As I said, I'm not --" He offers Zeb a three or four on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. "Their fighting styles are different from those I learnt at the Academy, and from one another. Having been beaten by both in the past -- with _and_ without the aid of the Force -- I find it illuminating to watch them practice. To see how they fight when I'm not in the thick of it."

Zeb turns that over in his head a few times. "Not bad," he says. "What's the _actual_ truth, though?"

Kallus glares at him, but Zeb stands his ground, meeting the other man glare for glare until Kallus relents, running a hand through his hair, making it fluff.

"When I was a boy,” he says, “all I wanted was to join the military. To rise in the ranks, make a name for myself. Provide a better life for my family. There would be no such opportunity for someone with the same abilities as a Jedi, as I'm sure you can imagine, so I ... _concealed_ them. So as not to jeopardize my career."

Zeb blinks at him, momentarily at a loss for words. “Seems to've worked out pretty well for you, doing that,” he settles on, finally.

“To some degree, yes. Until _someone_ challenged me to look more closely at what I was doing, what I was a part of, and start asking questions.”

Kallus angles a half-smile in Zeb’s direction, then returns his attention to Ezra and Kanan down in the valley, once again. “The Empire has never, to my knowledge, said explicitly that the Force-sensitive are unwelcome in their ranks, but all of the Imperial Force-users I've known of were all under Darth Vader's command, not regularly enlisted members of the Imperial fleet, and that -- I found that a daunting prospect. So I kept it hidden, learnt to use it only when it suited me, subtlely enough that it went unnoticed. I should have known someone here would pick up on it, given your exposure to those who use it so openly, but ...” He shrugs. “It’s a conscious thing, using it. I can stop, and will, if you’ll please not tell anyone that I’m capable.”

“Don’t see how anybody’d need to know, ‘cept that it could come in handy for certain missions,” Zeb says. “I’ll leave it to you to tell ‘em if that happens. Ain’t my place to say for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your discretion.”

Zeb tosses off a half-hearted salute and earns another half-smirk from Kallus in answer, the two of them sitting together in companionable silence for a few minutes, Kallus watching Ezra and Kanan, Zeb watching Kallus, taking in the twitch of the muscles along his jawline as he watches, soaking it all in. Every inch the intelligent, scheming bastard Zeb used to see in his nightmares, only now ...

He stays at Kallus’ side until the sun’s started to set, the warmth of the day bleeding into the steeled cool of twilight, his thoughts crowding one another as he and Kallus return together to base.

\---

He’s sitting in the same spot the following afternoon when Zeb goes looking for him, has his datapad in his lap and attention focused on Kanan’s sparring session with Ezra once again, though he must hear Zeb approaching this time because he doesn’t startle when Zeb flops down next to him, doesn’t look over when Zeb says _hey._

“Kid manage to get the upper hand yet?” Zeb wants to know, for all that he’s pretty sure he can guess at the answer.

“No, not yet,” Kallus says, “nor do I expect he will. His instructor is talented.”

Zeb grins, pleased to hear Kanan getting the recognition he deserves, for once. “Yeah, Kanan’s good to have at your back in a fight. Ezra -- well. Kanan’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that Ezra’s a natural, but that’s wishful thinking. Kid’s an idiot.”

“No. He’s young and undisciplined, but he has the instincts of a fighter,” Kallus says. “He’ll be a formidable opponent, if he manages to survive into adulthood. Moreso than Kanan Jarrus, I believe.”

Surprise paints a stripe across the flippant answer Zeb had been weighing on his tongue, keeps him quiet as he turns to follow Kallus’ gaze down to the sun-drenched ravine, the memory of Erza’s footsteps arguing with one another in the sand, enthusiastic curls of dust rising around his boots as he spars with Kanan, his lightsaber humming almost imperceptibly across the distance between them.

“If you say so,” he says, finally.

Kallus sighs and shifts a few inches closer to Zeb, stretching out his hand along Zeb’s line-of-sight, to the cacophony of footsteps in the dirt. “Look at the pattern of his movements,” he says, pointing. “Erratic, but intentional, and well-balanced. Common among those who’ve lived on the streets and survived by making quick and self-preserving getaways."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I guess."

"He’s keeping his core turned away from his opponent as well, consistently, presenting the slimmest possible target, protecting his most sensitive strike-zones," Kallus continues. "He doesn’t yet trust his weapon, or is struggling to control it, given the distance he’s holding it from himself -- not that I can say I blame him, the lightsaber is an _unnerving_ thing, especially up close -- but his accuracy with it is commendable, especially given that his opponent is giving him no quarter, fighting at full strength.”

Zeb listens, watching. Kallus is, irritatingly, correct, the improvements Ezra's made over the years so striking that Zeb catches himself resenting that Kallus picked up on them before he did. “All right, yeah,” he says, grudgingly. “Got a point there. Be kind’a surprised if the kid wasn’t making _any_ improvement, though, considering how much time he and Kanan spend wearing each other out.”

“Mm.”

“Could probably benefit from going up against a former Imperial, you know,” Zeb says, “even if you’re not using the Force against him. I know I have.”

Kallus snorts. “I doubt I have anything I could teach him,” he says. “My training did me little good when I went up against Thrawn. He said as much, even. Knew every weakness I’d have, being trained at the Academy as I was.”

“All the more reason for Ezra to learn to fight against you,” Zeb says. He scratches at an itch on his shoulder, looking at Kallus, the other man's words sinking in for him, raising questions he's not sure he's allowed to ask.

Kallus looks away from Ezra with a sigh. "What."

“Nothing. Just. I'm guessing you didn’t use the Force when you were tussling with Thrawn," Zeb says, "did you?”

Kallus shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t worth the risk. And besides, I’d gotten my message out. What happened to me no longer mattered by the time Thrawn had me in custody.”

 _That_ is _entirely_ incorrect but Zeb keeps that to himself. “Don’t blame you, not wanting him to know,” he says. “Thrawn’s an _actual_ bastard. Definitely would’a used it against you if he’d found out.”

Kallus drops some of the tension he’d gathered across his shoulders, not quite slouching, but getting closer to it than he’s ever done in Zeb’s presence before, the sleeve of his sweater barely brushing against the fur of Zeb’s arm as he sighs. “Yes. If not as an excuse to get rid of me outright once I’d served my purpose in leading him to Atollon, then as a bargaining chip to lure in the Force-sensitive, like Kanan Jarrus. Or as a gift to Darth Vader and his Inquisitors. I prefer not to think too long or hard about which it might have been.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Zeb says, swallowing around the dread rising in his throat. “Surprised you didn’t use it on us when you were trying to net us, back in the day. Could’a gotten you the upper hand in a few fights, using the Force. ‘Specially against me.”

“Yes, well. I may have been Imperial,” Kallus says, “but I did have _standards._ Using the Force to beat you --”

“Kanan used it on you plenty, didn’t he? Wouldn’t count that as playing dirty.”

“No. A man with a sword and the Force against a man with an army and a blaster is a fair fight.”

“But a lasat with a bo-rifle isn’t?”

Kallus looks at him sidelong. “If I were to win against you, it would be bo-rifle to bo-rifle, and using the Force would be cheating."

Zeb blinks at him, grappling for something to say while Kallus goes back to watching the Jedi below, Ezra now blinded by a helmet with the blast shield down, a training droid humming around him, shooting bright white blaster bolts for Ezra to deflect. One of Ezra’s favorite exercises; he must have done something to please Kanan in their earlier sparring.

“Been around your kind long enough, thought I had you figured,” Zeb says after Ezra’s successfully deflected enough bolts to keep from being entertaining. “Leave it to you to prove me wrong, there.”

“My kind,” Kallus echoes, lifting an eyebrow.

 _Imperials,_ Zeb doesn’t say. Kallus isn’t imperial anymore. Hasn't been for a good while. “Humans.”

Kallus snorts, shifting to cross his legs, the datapad balancing precariously atop his thigh. “You’ll no more find two humans alike than two identical planets,” he says. “We may have superficial similarities, but like all other sentients, we are, maddeningly, quite unique once you get past the surface.”

“Don’t have to get past the surface to find _maddening_ with some of you,” Zeb says, tipping his head pointedly in Ezra’s direction, pleased when Kallus takes the joke for what it is and chuckles softly. “Kanan’s all right when he’s not trying to be all mystical and wise, Sabine's always been a good one, and you’re more’n okay, now that you’re not trying to kill me every chance you get. Ezra, though ...” He shakes his head. “Ezra’s a pain. I love him like a brother, but he’s a pain.”

“He’s young, as I said,” Kallus says. “He’ll outgrow it.”

“If I don’t kill him first,” Zeb says, and Kallus chuckles again, the sound warm, folding into the sunlit haze of the afternoon. Zeb grins, the expression taking a wicked edge as an idea presents itself to him, devious and _irresistible._ “I know you said you ain’t interested in using the Force anymore," he says, "but -- even _you’ve_ gotta admit it could be funny, messing with him. Take some’a the piss out of his sails.”

“I don’t think that’s how the expression goes.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I have _no_ idea, actually.”

Zeb grins at him sidelong. “C’mon,” he says. “You can’t tell me you’re not tempted to give him a little nudge with your Force gift. Tip his balance maybe. Push him off-center.” He leans in, close enough to drop his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, for all that they're alone together, no one within earshot. “Or maybe turn off that lightsaber’a his. _Just_ when the ‘droid fires a bolt at his ass.”

“Garazeb Orrelios, that’s _cruelty,”_ Kallus says, crossing his hands over his datapad and treating Zeb to a look of pure disappointment. “I cannot _believe_ you would suggest such a thing against your own teammate, your _family._ Just when you had me believing that you are a man of honor.”

Zeb rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to defend himself, to point out that it’s good practice for the kid to learn how to adapt and overcome, but the sound of Ezra swearing violently distracts him, the words dying in his mouth as he looks down and sees Ezra rubbing a hand over his hip.

 _“Focus,”_ Kanan says.

“I am!”

“Not if your lightsaber’s disengaging in the middle of your swing you’re not.”

“That _wasn’t_ my fault.”

A sigh. “Ezra ...”

Zeb looks at Kallus, mouth hanging open in what _can’t_ be an intelligent expression, but he’s too shocked to care. Kallus treats him to his very best Imperial bastard smile, sharp enough to cut through bone, and reaches out, resting one of his hands against Zeb’s shoulder. “I concede to your point,” he says, smooth as krykna silk, his mouth curved in a smile that reaches his eyes, making them dance. “That _was_ hilarious.”

He pushes himself to his feet and pats Zeb’s shoulder on his way past, the smile stretching into a downright _naughty_ grin when Zeb stands and follows, walking back with him to base.

_Author’s rambling_  
Of all the _Star Wars_ canon out there, I think Alexsandr Kallus has the _best_ character arc, by a very large margin. I was _shocked_ when he revealed himself as Fulcrum, I was genuinely worried about him when Thrawn caught him sending messages to the Rebellion, and that ending -- well. That just about knocked me off my toes, true story. So much love for this character.

Got an awfully big soft-spot for Zeb as well. My personal headcanon, which has absolutely no foundation or back-up from canon, is that he learned Basic as part of his military training, but none of his lessons included idioms or expressions, and where he’s heard them from Kanan and Sabine and Hera plenty, he’s never formally studied them, so he messes them up from time to time. Like I said, doesn’t fit canon, but you see these? These fucks I don’t give? Yeah. _Yeah._

I finished _Rebels_ on 18 December and have been mulling a handful of fanfictions in my head ever since. Gonna see how many I can squeeze into this story, if there’s interest in me continuing. Lemme know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one chapter where Kallus and Zeb spar together. A lot.

**Brute Force**

_part ii_

Zeb’s not in what most would call a _good_ mood, stuck doing inventory with AP-5, cataloguing and stowing the impressive haul of weapons they secured on the run that damaged the _Ghost_ to the point that she'll be grounded a couple of weeks at least, the thrill of the success they exchanged for their freedom to be out flying among the stars rather than staring up at them through the planet's atmosphere all but entirely deadened under AP-5’s bland, monotone voice emulation, its tendency to speak negatively in that same bland monotone only serving to exacerbate Zeb’s dour disposition.

He’s seriously considering blasting a hole through AP-5’s stupid head when Kallus finds him near the end of a _very_ long day, Kallus' mouth quirked in the sort of bare smirk that says he knows Zeb’s feeling murderous and intends to take full advantage, treating AP-5’s retreating back to a measured look as soon as he’s stopped at Zeb’s side.

“Enjoying your time with your favorite ‘droid, I see.”

“Thinking about using it for target practice, more like.”

“If you do that, you’ll end up shouldering the burden of its responsibilities, and then you’ll have no time for sparring with me,” Kallus says, “which if you’re not _terribly_ busy right now --”

Zeb wraps his hand around Kallus’ arm and stomps off towards the far side of the loading dock, Kallus’ amusement warm in his voice as he says _that’s a yes, then._ It is, and has been since the first evening they faced off in a friendly match, sparring with Kallus quickly becoming one of Zeb's favorite pastimes. He’s in a better mood already at the promise of a match when they reach the spot they’ve been using for training, its relatively flat surface peppered across with moss-soft stones, some sheared flat on their sides, others smooth and round and damnably difficult to see, their presence adding just enough variety to the terrain to keep it interesting, unpredictable, the lack of trees adding warmth from the stars breathing life onto the planet, compelling Kallus to take off his vest and sweater straight away, his undershirt neatly tucked into his trousers, held in place by his belt.

That undershirt won’t stay tucked in long. Zeb takes it as a private, personal goal to see to that.

“Want a warm-up first?” Kallus says when he notices Zeb looking at him.

“Nah. Let’s see what I could do against you if you got the drop on me.”

Kallus lifts an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth rising with it, transforming him immediately and fully into Smug Bastard Kallus, Zeb’s _favorite_ Kallus to fight. “I could, if you like. Surprise you when you’re least expecting it.”

Zeb’s fur rises to stand on end, adrenaline pushing at the stillness in his muscles, urging him forward. “Do it, sometime,” he says. “Surprise me. See how it works out for you.”

Kallus grins and pounces.

He goes for Zeb’s core first, sliding to the right at the very last second and making a play for one of Zeb’s legs next, striking from behind, aiming for the bend in the joint, where lasat tend to be weakest. Predictable, but precise, his legs braced under him and arms coming up just in time to parry the blow Zeb gives him in answer, pushing back with enough strength to send Zeb’s arm wide, leaving him open just long enough for Kallus’ next strike to land, his fist opening into a flat hand just as it connects, keeping him from knocking the wind out of Zeb’s lungs.

“Point to me,” he reports, pulling his hand back. His shirt’s still tucked in.

Zeb drops into a low fighting stance and grins, wide enough to show teeth. “Enjoy it,” he says. “It’ll be the last one you get.”

It isn’t -- they separate at a draw, that evening, both of them worn out and dirty, sweat sticking Kallus’ hair to his forehead -- but he _does_ manage to get Kallus’ shirt untucked from his trousers at some point in their second match, which, in the privacy of Zeb’s mind, means he came away the victor.

“Might just be my imagination, but I think you’re getting better,” Zeb says as they undress in the communal ‘fresher, his muscles telling him (loudly) that he maybe should have said yes to Kallus’ offer of a warm-up round, or at very least stretched a little before diving straight into training with the man. “Either that or you weren’t able to really let loose in that uniform you used to wear.”

Kallus’ ears are very red; they do that, Zeb’s noticed, whenever he’s being complimented. “Or,” he says, unbuckling his belt and shucking his trousers down his legs, “I knew better than to go jumping around unpredictably with Imperial Stormtroopers nearby. With their famed marksmanship, they’d’ve likely hit _me,_ aiming for you.”

Zeb’s ears flatten. “That’s -- hadn’t thought of that, but that’s a good point.”

“I’d say it’s something of a joke among Imperial officers, but Imperial officers don’t joke.”

He says it lightly, tosses it off like it is itself intended to be a joke, but Zeb’s gotten to know him over the past months, knows well enough from sparring with the man what’s a feint and what isn’t, and this, without doubt, isn’t. “Should tell that to Ezra,” Zeb tells him, stepping under the flow of water, the heat and steam doing the most amazing things for his shoulders and back. “Kid’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Mm.”

Which in Kallus-speak means _no, and I don’t want to argue about it,_ his back to Zeb as he steps under the neighboring showerhead to bathe, his hair going darker orange under the flow of water, the heat striping his skin pink.

He makes good on his promise of a surprise ambush four days later, startling Zeb half out of his skin and earning them an audience for their impromptu training session, all of the workers assigned to the area apparently forewarned of Kallus’ intentions, the number of sour looks the pair of them get when the fight ends with a point in Zeb’s favor telling him just how little faith his fellow rebels have in his ability to put down a single human fighter. Not that Kallus makes it an easy victory; he’s every inch the vicious, cunning warrior Zeb knew over their years as enemies, devious and fast and strong, never given to using the same strategy the same way twice, taking both victory and defeat with grace and honor.

A cunning warrior who walks over to AP-5 to accept his cut of the betting pool, much to Zeb’s surprise, his shoulders rolling a luxurious shrug when he catches Zeb gaping at him.

“I thought it would be a losing bet, if that brings you any comfort,” he says, tucking the credits into his pocket (and his undershirt into the waistband of his trousers; Zeb managed to push him hard enough for it to pull loose, at least). “Your fight-or-flight response is impressive. You’ve been holding back when we spar.”

“I haven’t,” Zeb says. “I’m just not trying to _kill_ you when we spar.”

“I don’t think you could, even if you were trying,” Kallus tells him.

Which is probably just the post-match adrenaline talking, his voice still a touch breathless, his face pinked around his fur, still, but it sticks like a splinter under Zeb’s skin all the same, needles at him the next time he and Kallus have a free afternoon to jump around and swat at each other. Has him wondering if he _has_ been holding back, unconsciously, if he’s kept some of the restraint he had when Kallus was newly cleared for combat, his injuries just barely healed, his strength still sapped from his recovery period.

He wins the first two bouts, that afternoon. Loses the third simply because his foot finds a round stone just _barely_ peeking up from the soft dirt around it and throws him off his balance, but he wins the fourth and fifth rounds, pinning Kallus to the ground and holding him there on the sixth, close enough that he can feel the man’s chest heaving under his own, the heat of their bodies mingling through their clothes.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you today,” Kallus breathes, shifting a little under Zeb’s weight, “but I like it.”

“You like losing, do ya,” Zeb says.

“I like _learning,”_ Kallus corrects. “And you’ve taught me a great deal today.”

He doesn’t expand on what, exactly, he’s learned, but he does lose their next two bouts, staying down even after Zeb realizes he’s pinned Kallus’ bad leg, the one he broke on Bahryn, and relents, reaching down to offer him a hand up.

“No, thank you. I think I’ll stay here,” Kallus says, closing his eyes and shifting a little, nesting down into the dirt like a loth-cat preparing for a nap. “It’s quite comfortable, really, once you get used to the grasses poking you in the ear, and there aren't any lasat down here trying to punch me in half.”

Zeb chuckles and reaches down with both hands, hauling Kallus up by the shoulders to stand on his own two feet, brushing the bits of grass from his hair and fur and clothes as an afterthought, just because he can, because he’s relatively certain Kallus’ll let him. Which he does. “You had enough for today, then?”

“I have not, but I think my body has,” Kallus says, reaching back to rub at the spot Zeb remembers kicking not more than two minutes earlier, just below his ribs. “Good match. You fight well.”

"Yeah, likewise. Been a while since I got to do that. Really go all-out."

Kallus frowns, bending down to retrieve his vest and pull it on, not bothering with his sweater first. "Why is that?"

Zeb shrugs. "Dunno. Never really _needed_ to, not with the others around. Wouldn't want to scare 'em if I did, anyhow. Humans ain't the biggest fans'a big, hairy monsters showing off that they could tear ‘em limb from limb without too much trouble, y'know."

The frown persists. "You're hardly a monster."

"Right you are, and I'd like to keep it that way," Zeb tells him, stretching a grin over the awkwardness between them. Kallus gives his expression a moment’s consideration before turning his feet towards the path leading back to base, Zeb falling in at his side.

“You know,” he says before Zeb can come up with a decent change of subject, “from all I’d heard of the rebellion before joining to see for myself, I would have assumed that --”

And then he’s gone, instantly dropping from view, the rock he’s tripped over sitting innocently enough just inches from the sole of his boot. Kallus swears a blue streak into the dirt clouding his fur, his muscles tensed with temper when Zeb crouches to help him up.

"What I get for not minding my feet," he says, standing and brushing dirt from his ego. "Perhaps I'm more tired than I thought."

"Or you need a drink," Zeb says, "give you something to blame next time you decide to kiss the ground."

Kallus considers him, then nods. "All right,” he says, “but I'm buying."

"How much did you make off'a that wager you placed on me winning the other day?" Zeb wants to know.

"Enough for two drinks, at least. More if your system can handle it."

Zeb claps him on the shoulder, hard enough to send Kallus stumbling forward a few steps. "All right, then, it's decided," he says. “Lead on. You're buying."

\---

He's regretting it -- _all_ of it, from the all-out brawl of their sparring, to the drinks after, to the long hours spent talking with Kallus, both of them growing progressively less and less inhibited as their drinks dwindled between them -- when he wakes the following morning to _far_ too bright a light and Ezra squawking at him, as shrill as if he'd reversed time and undone what favors puberty has done his voice. The hangover pooled heavy at the base of his neck wakes as well and stretches out its long, sharp fingers, pushing at every angle of his skull until it's clear that it's going to win this particular bout, Zeb closing his eyes in defeat and dropping his head back down onto his pillow, away from Ezra's yelling, burying his face into the soft warmth of Kallus' hair once again. It’s nice, now that it’s had several months’ liberation from the product he used as an Imperial to slick it back, the strands free to tuck his _actual_ scent among them, stronger after they’ve been out sparring, and since he’s--

Oh.

_Oh._

"There's _rules_ about stuff like this," Ezra's yelling when Zeb's conscious brain catches up and invites his body along to the proceedings, sensation mapping his arm draped heavy over Kallus' hip, his toes tangled in the blanket wrapped loose around Kallus from feet to shoulders, the two of them bunched up together, courtesy the limited width of the bunk they’re sharing. He lifts his arm and pushes himself up onto his elbow, checking that he’s not woken Kallus in the process, then twists to drop his legs over the edge of the bed, squinting finally into the blinding brilliance of Ezra’s righteous fury, taking in as best he can Ezra’s posture, skinny arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping an irritated tattoo against the floor grates. His face difficult to make out, backlit as he is, but clearly pinched in demonstration of _just_ how upset he is.

“Good morning to you, too,” Zeb sighs, the full weight of sleep slow-draining from his muscles as he reaches up to rub soreness from the back of his neck.

"It's _not_ morning," Ezra snaps, "it's stupid o'clock at night and I’m _tired_ and you're in bed with _him_ and you didn't even put a sock on the door. _Everyone_ knows you're supposed to put a sock on the door."

Zeb did not know that. "Don’t think I own any socks,” he says around a yawn.

Ezra makes a noise like an animal being elbowed in the gut and reaches up to pull at his own hair. “You’re having _sex_ with an _Imperial_ in _my_ room,” he bellows, loudly enough it’s small wonder the entirety of the galaxy doesn’t hear him, “when I’m _tired_ and I want to go to _bed_ and that’s _gross_ and _I don’t like it.”_

“You’n Kanan need to have a very serious talk about how sex works if you think this is what it looks like,” Zeb tells him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the fully clothed, blanket-burrito’d man sleeping at his back. “It generally involves a lot less clothing, to start. And at least one party being awake. Preferably both. Thought you were old enough to know about the basics, at least.”

“I _know_ how sex works,” Ezra says. “But you’re -- _ugh.”_

He throws his hands up and storms off, stomping hard enough through the _Ghost’s_ corridors that he’ll probably be complaining later about his feet hurting, which leaves Zeb free to chuckle in bemusement, looking over his shoulder at the man sleeping at his back, surprise lifting his brows when he finds Kallus awake, returning his gaze.

“I’d say you handled that well,” Kallus yawns.

“Oh, glad you approve,” Zeb says, rolling his eyes. “Lot’a help _you_ were.”

“What help could I have been? Bridger barely tolerates my presence when he _isn’t_ throwing a tantrum.”

Which is a fair enough point that Zeb doesn’t argue. “Ezra’s a tough nut to crack,” he says, instead, earning a soft sound at the back of Kallus’ throat, the other man yawning again before he sits up, pushing the blanket down to his waist.

“Shall I see if I can find him on my way to my own bunk, let him know it’s safe for him to come back?” he says.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” Zeb says, taking to his feet and stepping back, watching Kallus untangle himself from the blanket and climb out of his bed, ducking down to avoid banging his head on Ezra’s bunk on his way out. “He’ll be on the forward guns, probably. It’s where he usually goes to brood.”

“All right. Thank you."

“Thank _you,”_ Zeb says. “Don’t kill him if he gives you attitude. _When_ he gives you attitude.”

“I won’t even be tempted,” Kallus promises. “Good night, Garazeb.”

“G’night.”

Zeb watches him go, grateful for the darkness that floods in when the door closes, leaving him to crawl back into his bunk in peace. His pillow smells like Kallus when he nuzzles into it; the blanket does as well, both rich with sweat tinged vaguely with scotch, and warm, still, the blanket especially hoarding some of Kallus’ body heat in its folds. Zeb shoves it to the foot of the bunk and tucks his feet into it, stretching out on his back as he does, exhaling into the residual sleepiness washing over him in the dark. He should drink some water to keep the scotch from ruining his morning, he thinks, maybe get up and wash himself, clean off the residue of the day. But he’s _comfy,_ a minor miracle, given that he’s definitely in the hungover portion of his evening, and he and Kallus have already made the bedclothes dirty, sleeping in them in the same clothes they wore to spar, so bathing isn’t likely to do anything the sheets themselves won’t immediately undo, and ...

Sleep obscures any arguments that might have followed, thick and heavy enough that he’s only vaguely aware of Ezra coming to bed, grumbling complaints as he climbs up into his own bunk, no memory of them left by the time he wakes in the morning.

\---

Everyone knows by the midday mark the day following that Zeb and Kallus shared a bed the night before.

Zeb isn’t terribly surprised that they know -- the fast, efficient spread of information has always been the lifeblood of the rebellion, kept its heart beating long past what anyone would have guessed, back in its early days -- and isn’t terribly concerned, either. Rumors within the rebellion are not and have never been a big deal, more a source of entertainment, an excuse for bonding among strangers, and tends to move quickly, each new whisper losing its shine as soon as the next big scoop comes along.

“Jealous?” he purrs to the gaggle of engineers who stare at him when he passes through the mess hall, their conversation not _nearly_ as quiet or subtle as they must have thought it was when he first walked in.

“Don’t tell me you had a bet placed on _this,_ too,” he says to the crew assigned to the loading dock snickering as he walks by, their mirth dying quickly enough at the reminder of their lost credits, their sour grumbling bringing a smile to Zeb’s face.

“It’s just a natural side effect of my rugged, animal charm,” he tells Kanan when they pass each other in the hall, Kanan turning towards him with a bit more purpose than usual, mouth open already around the question Zeb can guess at easily enough.

Kanan closes his mouth and smiles. “He was asleep fully clothed in your bunk, from what I heard,” he says, calm as anything, “and you let him hog the covers.”

Zeb sighs. Leave it to Kanan to be entirely unruffled by the whole thing. “Wasn’t using 'em anyway."

“Good man,” Kanan says, patting Zeb on the shoulder before going on his way.

He’s thinking to make a joke of it to Kallus when he leaves his post to see about inviting the other man to spar that evening, just enough daylight left for them to manage a few bouts before it’s too dark to see what they’re doing, but Kallus greets him with what is at _least_ a seven on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale when he walks into the logistics suite, the expression darkening when the two humans working on a decryption project at the far side of the room spot Zeb coming in and start giggling.

“Having a party in logistics today, are you?” Zeb says to Kallus, his gaze lingering on the giggling pair just long enough to make them shut up. “Sounds like fun, wish I’d been invited.”

“It’s been anything but,” Kallus says, switching off the map he’d been studying. “Attention spans have been significantly limited today.”

“Looks like it. Care to leave ‘em to it, go wear each other out for a bit instead?”

A gasp ricochets around the room, landing on the solid nine glare Kallus aims across the room. “I would be delighted,” he all but growls, “though I suppose you _should_ be aware that, if the current intel widely accepted as truth around here is to believed, you and I are more likely to be found _kriffing_ than sparring.”

Zeb barks a surprised laugh, pleased when their voyeurs jump a little at the sound. “Ezra’s been spreading his misunderstanding of sexual intercourse around base, has he?” he says. “Could be a good way to sort out who’s a virgin and who ain’t, based on who takes the kid at his word. Nothing wrong with a bit’a naivete, but not being able to get laid when you’re part’a what the Empire’d have the galaxy believe is one big orgy -- now _that’s_ gossip worth laughing about.”

It’s dark in logistics, always is, but lasat eyes are better-suited to seeing well in the dark than human eyes, giving him the pleasure of seeing Kallus’ tormentors lose all sign of amusement, their shoulders hunched as they go back to work, barely looking up as Kallus strides across the room, his hand at Zeb’s lower back compelling him out as well.

 _“Thank you,”_ he says, once they’ve cleared the compound, out into the curls of wind promising rain later in the night. “I don’t know if you more narrowly saved me or them, but at least one party was fast-approaching a poor ending to his evening.”

Zeb chuckles. “Wish I’d waited a little longer, then,” he says. “Sounds like it would’a been a good show.”

Kallus sighs, exasperated, and runs his hand through his hair. “They’ve been over there _snickering_ all day, whispering to each other as though we’re not all stuck in the same room together _where I can hear them._ Or maybe they realized and I was meant to endure their prattle. I’m really not sure. Completely unacceptable, really. Where I appreciate the ... _relaxed_ atmosphere of the rebellion, the level of distraction considered tolerable by commanding officers amongst the staff is genuinely surprising, not to mention detrimental to the overall efficiency and operation of --”

Zeb keeps his mouth shut, letting Kallus rant for their walk down to their favored sparring spot, the flush of his skin maintaining even after he’s quieted, glaring at their surroundings as he yanks off his vest and sweater, tossing them with uncharacteristic carelessness onto one of the lower boulders. “Come at me with everything you’ve got,” Kallus orders him, drawing himself up tall and straight; textbook Imperial fighting stance, laced heavily with some good old-fashioned cocky bastard confidence. “Tear me to pieces if you can. You'll be doing me and every _idiot_ between here and the edge of the planet a favor if you do, I can promise you that.”

Zeb’s skin shivers with anticipation. “All right,” he says. “But only if you’ll use the Force to keep me from having too easy a time of it. Along with all your other dirty tricks.”

Kallus _almost_ conceals his reaction, his face as still as if it were carved from the stones around them, his feelings betrayed only by his eyes going just a little wider, whites showing around the irises. “I’ve never done that before,” he says. “Used it, in a fight.”

“Don’t tempt me to make a first time joke,” Zeb says. “‘Cause I will.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Kallus says, “and I accept your terms. I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure I’ll thank you later,” Zeb says, and attacks.

For the first few minutes the fight’s no different from the hundreds of others he’s had with Kallus, both as friend and foe, long enough that Zeb’s just starting to suspect that Kallus lied when he said he’d use his gift, until Kallus strikes him down and _holds_ him down, striding across the four paces between them with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’re holding back,” he says, glowering at Zeb’s prone form.

“Yeah, well you ain’t -- you _weren’t_ \-- using the Force.”

“To the contrary, I’ve been using it throughout,” Kallus says, the pressure on Zeb’s chest relenting, his hand warm when he extends it, pulling Zeb to his feet.

“I didn’t notice anything,” Zeb says.

"Then you weren't paying attention."

"I was, too."

“You didn’t notice that not a single one of your attacks has landed?” Kallus says, cocking his head. “Surely you hold your own skills in higher esteem than _that.”_

“Well, yeah, it ain’t been -- I thought you were just doing real well today. On account’a you being mad at the --“ Zeb chuckles, reaching back to scratch an itch at the back of his neck. “All right, sounds dumb now I’m hearing it out loud. Guess I thought it’d be flashier, somehow.”

“Subtlety has never been an artform highly valued by the Jedi in their combat training, so far as I am aware,” Kallus says, “but a weapon an enemy doesn’t see is a weapon most effectively used, and in this case, the Force is that weapon.”

Zeb snorts, slowly circling him, watching Kallus watch him. “Said once you should ask Kanan to train you,” he says. “I’m thinking maybe I had that backwards.”

“Thank you, I think,” Kallus says, awkwardly, the moment cut short as Zeb pounces, Kallus just barely dodging before he can make contact.

An intentionally close dodge, Zeb realizes, feeling the pressure of the Force nudging him as he punches and kicks and claws at Kallus, his strikes always _almost_ connecting, so close that his first impulse is to write it off as his own error, his own lack of precision. Kallus' strategy is keeping him centered on his _own_ skills and opportunities, the distance between himself and whatever Kallus is planning more than enough room for Kallus to slip in and land a solid blow to Zeb’s belly, nothing damaging or underhanded, Zeb’s counterstrike stalled mid-air, frozen inches from Kallus’ face, the smirk he wears telling Zeb clearly enough that he could have dodged and opted not to, his win already decided. Their next round is no different, save that it’s _maddening,_ now that Zeb knows what’s going on but can’t quite get a handle on it, his fervor and competitive streak gathering like kindling at the base of his spine, bursting into a growl deep in the back of his throat when Kallus claims the next bout’s victory for himself as well.

He’s never fought a human like he’d fight another lasat, before. It feels good. Feels _amazing._ And the fact that Kallus can keep up with him, can avoid his best strikes and take shots of his own, the two of them so evenly matched that they end their third round in a draw, lying side-by-side in the grass, sucking in mouthfuls of the dense evening air ...

“That was incredible,” Zeb says between breaths, turning to look at Kallus, a look of boyish glee answering him when Kallus tips his head, the dry grasses whispering delight beneath his hair. “We gotta do that again. Soon.”

“And here I’d thought you were through trying to kill me,” Kallus breathes. His shirt’s come untucked from his belt, sweat sticking it to his heaving chest. “I kid. That was -- I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed anything more.”

Zeb grins, his ribs swelling with the compliment. “Glad it was good for you, too," he says. "And while we're at it, 'm glad you never used any’a that on any'a us, back in the day. We wouldn’t’a stood a _chance.”_

Kallus hums softly, reaching down and, on the second try, pulls his undershirt down to cover the thick fur of his belly. A pity, really. “Giving you over to the Empire would have been an incredible waste,” he murmurs, so softly that Zeb can't tell if he was meant to hear it or not.

He mulls it over in muddy silence, letting the endorphin rush and Kallus’ kind tone settle over him, as warm as the starshine hoarded in the ground beneath them, and as welcome besides, before pushing himself up to a seated position, turning to look over at his friend as he does. “So,” he says. “Fancy a rematch?”

Kallus huffs a laugh, his belly quaking with it. “It’s not a rematch until we’ve finished our current round,” he says, “and I, for one, am ready to finish it for the both of us.”

Zeb climbs to his feet, digging his claws into the hard-packed ground as he does, ready to spring aside the instant he feels the Force pushing at them, testing his balance. “Stop lying around,” he says, “and we’ll see who finishes what,” every fiber of his _being_ ready to put muscle behind his words, all but trembling with excitement as Kallus chuckles and pushes himself to his feet.

\---

Zeb doesn’t claim victory that evening, but he takes small comfort in the fact that Kallus doesn’t, either, the two of them accepting a draw only after the last shreds of daylight have long since gone and the clouds that roll in without their notice have gathered and sagged into a soaking rain that sends them running for shelter, the dust and dirt clinging to their clothes and fur and skin turning into mud within seconds. Kallus gives himself and Zeb only the briefest once-over as they jog for cover, declaring both of them _an irredeemable mess,_ and Zeb laughs, nodding agreement.

“Can’t wait to hear the rumors _this’s_ gonna start,” he says as they near the far western entrance to the base, the ‘freshers there close enough to the entry corridor that they’ll not be stuck mopping mud from the floor for the rest of the night.

“Far fewer than if we were to invade Bridger’s space again, I would assume,” Kallus says. He chucks his sodden vest and sweater at the bench along the wall, then peels off his undershirt and trousers, leaving them on the floor rather than on one of the benches, muddy water trickling down the tiles to the drains even before he’s crossed to the shower. “I can’t say that I blame him. Given what he thought was happening, and in his quarters -- were I in his place, I suspect I’d’ve been upset, as well.”

Zeb snorts, shaking his head. Rainwater drips from his ears as he does, cold as it traces a path through the fur of his chest. “He’s a kid and he acts like a kid when he’s embarrassed, is all,” he says. “You should’a heard him the time he walked in on Kanan and Hera -- who _were_ actually in the middle’a having sex, just to be clear. That was a helluva night.”

“I can only imagine,” Kallus says.

Zeb grins. “Yeah, well. I’d been told to keep the kid out’a their hair for a few hours,” he says, “doing busy-work, external maintenance on the _Ghost_ mostly. Thought I’d been doing an okay job of it ‘til I heard Ezra hollering and carrying on, coming out’a the _Ghost_ like he had Vader himself on his heels. Took Kanan a bit to get his trousers on and track Ezra down, corner him well enough to have The Talk with him. Which he didn't need, turns out, but he was still acting all weird, so Kanan kept after him, had to practically torture it out of him to find out what his deal was. And do you know what he said when he finally spit it out, came clean about his _objections_ to the whole mess?”

Kallus doesn’t look at him. “I assume he had objections to his human mentor pairing with a non-human partner,” he says, so flat and cool that it bleeds all the humor from Zeb’s story, pulling it into the muck flowing off of them, down the drains.

“Wha -- no,” Zeb says, off-balanced. “No, he -- why would _that_ bother him?”

“Is it not the commonality between the two events?” Kallus says. “Kanan with his Twi’lek lover. You and I, a human and a lasat.”

“Er, _no,”_ Zeb says. “I mean, I guess you're not _wrong_ that we’re -- he said it was like walking in on his parents doing the deed, is where I was going with this. Ezra did. Said Kanan and Hera were -- what’s wrong with two species keeping each other warm at night?”

“Nothing,” Kallus says, “unless one has been raised to think it taboo.”

Zeb sighs, running a hand down his face, unsurprised when he finds bits of dirt stubbornly clinging to his chin. “That’s Imperial thinking.”

Kallus looks at him, finally. “You can’t convince me it hasn’t found its way into your rebellion as well,” he says. “The way you speak of yourself as a monster, the titillation of our comrades upon hearing rumors of us sharing a bed. You don’t hear that sort of thing when two humans are thought to be in a similar situation.”

“Since when?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Since when ain’t human/human kriff gossip fodder for the rumor mill?” Zeb says. “That’s all most folks around here talk about. The kriffing, more than what species is involved.”

Kallus’ face is already pink from the warmth of his shower, but it goes a little darker, his spots melting into the flush across his nose before he turns away where Zeb can’t see them properly anymore. “I’m not in those particular rumor circles, I suppose.”

“You ain’t missing out on much,” Zeb says. “Most’a what goes through is just rumor, no truth to it anyway. Like the rumor about us kriffing. And everybody knows it, but -- y’know how it is. You take your fun where you can get it.”

The look Kallus gives him, quick and raw and honest, tells him plainly that he very much does _not_ know how it is, but he sheds some of the tension he’s been carrying since waking in Zeb’s bunk, even laughing a little at the next story Zeb tells to break the silence, his smile reaching his eyes as he and Zeb dry themselves and gather their clothes, going off together in search of a cleaner.

\---

True to Zeb’s estimation, the rumors die down quickly enough, taking with it the discomfort Kallus had donned like an old garment from his early days with the rebellion, his face less often set in a frown when Zeb sees him in passing, his companions in logistics treating him like an equal once again, no longer as an outsider. Their trainings stay blessedly vicious, though, Kallus growing more comfortable using the Force to gain the upper hand with each passing day, giving Zeb all the freedom he needs to let loose and _fight,_ shaking the dust from the training he received as a younger man, his body stretching happily past the restrictions he’s never consciously set for himself, but takes great pleasure in breaking, all the same.

They’re nearing the end of their stamina nearly a month later, Kallus’ attacks and defense both starting to rely heavily enough on his Force gift that Zeb doesn’t have to be paying all that close attention to spot its use, his own strikes edging towards sloppy, his ribs heaving around the breath he can’t quite suck in deeply enough, no matter how hard Kallus has him panting. Moving now into the endgame, one of them guaranteed to slip up, to leave an opening that the other will exploit, ending the match, and as much as Zeb dislikes losing, he recognizes instantly when his loss is imminent, the low sweep he aims at Kallus’ legs missing their mark, Kallus sending his compensatory swipe wide, leaping into the air with all the grace and power of a Force-user fully in his element, poised to land with a killing blow to Zeb’s throat, Zeb’s fur rising on end in anticipation of his touch.

Only the blow doesn’t come, Kallus’ body instead going deathly still mid-air, his eyes blown wide and throat working as surprise visibly floods through him, his unnatural stillness only exacerbating the animal desperation lancing through his facial expression. Zeb stares at him, open-mouthed, for what feels like forever, his brain feeding static across his ears for the two seconds it takes Kanan to emerge from behind one of the rocks, his arm outstretched and hand curled into a familiar claw. Focusing the Force. Using it to keep Kallus aloft.

“Zeb, step away,” he says. “I’ve got him, but I don’t know how long I can hold him.”

“Kanan, what in the --”

“He’s been using the Force on you,” Kanan says, his voice taking on an acrid, cruel edge, twisting the usual richness of his tone into something sour that sends Zeb’s ears back flat against his skull. “I thought Ezra was imagining things when he told me, but --”

“Well a’ _course_ he’s using the Force, I told him to,” Zeb says. “It’s good practice, for both of us. All in good fun.”

 _“Fun,”_ Kanan echoes, as if he’s never heard the word before.

“Yeah, by some definition’a the term. For the love’a -- put him down, Kanan. He ain’t done anything wrong.”

Kanan’s fingertips twitch, tightening his grasp for the barest second before he relents, dropping Kallus in a disorganized clamber of hands and knees against the rocky ground, Kallus’ aborted grunt of pain shooting straight through Zeb’s chest, the way Kallus pushes him away when he comes over to try to help him to his feet making it hurt even worse.

Kanan distracts him, crossing the field with deadly purpose in each step, his hand deliberate and steady as he unclips his lightsaber from his belt, the blade dormant but his thumb hovering _right_ over the activation switch. “How long have you known,” he says.

Zeb hauls Kallus to his feet and puts himself between Kallus and Kanan, his superior height and strength no match for the Kallus' resistance to the protective, defensive motion. “A while,” he says. “What’s it matter? Ain’t like there’s anything wrong with having the Force.”

“No, but concealing it, then using it against one of my friends in a fight --”

“-- is the best thing that’s happened to me since you’n Hera took me in,” Zeb says, rolling his eyes. “Like I said, it’s all in good fun. Good practice. All above-board.”

“Do you use it elsewhere?” Kanan says. “On others?”

“When convenient, yes, but not on others, organic or ‘droid. Not unless it’s an emergency,” Kallus says, stepping past Zeb’s arm, only the pressure of his hand trailing across Zeb’s lower back keeping Zeb from following through on the impulse to push him back, once again, where he’s safe. “I hesitated to use it in training with Garazeb, but as you’ve seen, he’s more than capable of holding his own against me, even with my ... _abilities.”_

Kanan doesn’t say anything immediately, but his thumb slips from the switch on his ‘saber, at least, the dull metal still tight-gripped in his hand. “How long have you known?” he says, finally. “That you were able to use the Force?”

“Most of my life. Since I was younger than Bridger, certainly.”

Kanan’s expression is impossible to see under the mask he wears to cover his scarring, but his surprise is palpable, all the same. “And you still joined up with the Empire,” he says. “Even with your gift.”

“I did, yes.”

“All the times you ambushed us,” Kanan says, “all the times we were able to slip through your fingers, you could have --”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Would you have?” Kallus says on a laugh as cold and lifeless as durasteel, the sound thin and brittle in the warm, humid air. “I had to explain it in detail to Garazeb, but I would think you, a former padawan of the Jedi Temple, would know just _how_ terrible an idea it would be to allow the Empire to know that one of its officers could wield the Force.”

“I’m sure Darth Vader would have taken a keen interest in you, if you had.”

“Precisely.”

Kanan’s hand loosens a little on his lightsaber, hesitation lacing the muscles of his arm as he hooks it onto his belt, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why use it on Zeb, then?”

“I asked him to, like I said,” Zeb cuts in, his fur ruffling a little at being left out of the conversation. “Makes sparring more fun, and I figure it’ll come in handy if Vader tries sending any more’a his Inquisitors after us. Have me ready to kick their asses. But mostly, it’s just fun.”

“You keep saying that,” Kanan says, “but I’m struggling to -- you know, I _really_ thought Ezra was making things up this time. Letting his imagination get away from him.”

“Ezra ain’t that creative,” Zeb says, pleased when Kanan snorts softly, shaking his head.

“Would you allow me to spar with you sometime?” he says, turning his face towards Kallus, his tone gentle once again, the Kanan Zeb loves like a brother fully restored before him.

At Zeb’s side, Kallus goes very still, his shoulders squared, hands clasped in loose fists at his hips. “If it won’t be taken the wrong way, should others see us,” he says.

Kanan smiles, his cheeks pushing at the lower edge of his mask. “I’ll make sure it’s not a surprise to anyone who matters,” he says. “Really, I just want to get a sense of how you fight and what you’re capable of. Ezra’s been long overdue an additional instructor, and I think you -- and Zeb together, maybe -- could be just what he needs.”

Zeb laughs, the awfulness of the afternoon breaking off of him as he does, crumbling at his feet. “Oh, he’s gonna _love_ this.”

“Quite the contrary,” Kanan says. “Same place tomorrow? If you’re up for it.”

Kallus nods. “I’ll be here.”

 _“We’ll_ be here,” Zeb corrects, and the way Kallus looks at him, surprised and pleased, puts a smile on his face that doesn’t dim until he’s tucked into his bunk later that night, sleep claiming the memory from him.

_Author’s ruminations_

I am unspeakably delighted that y’all liked the first installment of this nonsense, so here’s a second one as thanks, filled with absolutely none of the things I had in mind for the second chapter to contain, but what it _does_ have, I rather like.

Like Zeb and Kallus showering together. That’s a thing I like. And then getting drunk and accidentally passing out together in Zeb’s bunk. True story, that’s had me giggling for a few days now, and isn’t showing any sign of abating any time soon.

I’m not the biggest fan of either Kanan or Ezra in canon -- Kanan’s too often the stoic stick-up-his-ass Jedi, and Ezra’s ... well, he’s a teenager, so I guess kudos to the writing team for writing him realistically. All the same, their characterization in _An Inside Man,_ when Ezra sends Kallus sailing merrily through a map glass and Kanan bitches because _he_ wanted to be the one to do it? _That’s_ my favorite version of these two, and what I was going for here.

That said ... Ezra. Honey. Loan Zeb one of your own socks. Lasat don’t wear socks, and you damn well know it.

Enough out of me. I hope you like this bit. The next (?) bit’s partially done already, we’ll see where the muses take us next.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Ezra doesn't get to kill Kallus, and vice versa. Much to their mutual displeasure.

**Brute Force**

_part iii_

They drink together, afterwards, more on principle and unspoken agreement than an actual desire to get drunk, though that comes around quickly enough, Kallus taking the glass Zeb hands him and draining it in one go, his face settling into a one on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale by default as he leans back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Zeb chuckles and takes a healthy swig from his own glass, settling into the chair opposite.

“That could’a gone worse,” he says.

“Considerably.”

“Could’a gone better, too, I suppose,” he says, “all considered.”

“Mm.”

Zeb finishes his drink, setting his glass down with a satisfied sigh. His body’s tired, thrumming with the same lazy energy he feels whenever he and Kallus mess around together. “Your, ah, leg okay?” he says after a moment, nodding to Kallus’ right leg, extended out at an unnatural angle, Kallus’ hand resting protectively over his thigh. “I landed on it pretty hard at some point, I think.”

“Near, but not on it,” Kallus says. “And yes, it’s fine.”

He doesn’t draw it in, though, his hand staying where it is, pale against the tan of his trousers. Fingers twitching a little as he pushes his glass forward for Zeb to refill, lifting it in a toast this time, once Zeb’s refilled his own glass.

“To victory, even in defeat,” he says.

“To the Force, and you finally getting the chance to show Ezra how to use it. _Properly,”_ Zeb says.

Kallus breathes his amusement into his glass, taking a sip before lowering it to the table between them. “I harbor no illusion that Kanan Jarrus invited me to spar against him and his student out of the goodness of his heart or a desire for either of them to learn from me,” he says on a sigh that speaks more to a soul-weighted weariness than the strain of their earlier exercises. “His motivations were and are rooted firmly in distrust and a desire to gain a sense for what I’m capable of, so that if or _when_ he or Bridger need to put me down or eliminate me, they’ll have a lower chance of being thwarted by the unexpected.”

And that makes sense, terrible, gut-tugging sense, Zeb’s ears swiveling back as he processes it, each argument that comes to mind put down as quickly as it came, the logic coating Kallus’ words as firm and smooth as the table between them, no cracks or chips in it for Zeb to pick at. “Makes sense, I guess, Kanan being careful,” he says. “Ain’t all that common, meeting someone Force-sensitive, and when he does, it usually goes sideways on him in short order.”

Kallus lifts an eyebrow at him, cocking his head to the side, far enough for his fur to brush against the collar of his vest. “Did it,” he says, “with Bridger?”

“Oh yeah,” Zeb says. “Kid sneaked on board the _Ghost,_ tried to rob Kanan of some Jedi artifact. Accidentally gave away that he could use the Force in the process.” Zeb shrugs. “I didn’t want to bring him along, thought he was just a filthy street rat who’d kill us all in our sleep, first chance he got. Would’a gotten my way, too, if it hadn’t been for him tipping his hand.”

“I can see where you got such an impression of him,” Kallus says, “and I’m glad you were wrong. And that he remained with you, with the Phoenix Squadron.”

“Developing a soft-spot for the kid, are you?”

“Yes, to some extent.” Kallus hefts a sigh as heavy as the gravity pulling at their limbs, shaking his head a little as he lifts his glass to his lips. He closes his eyes and tips his head back as he rolls the scotch over his tongue, a little shudder rippling through him as he swallows. “I wish I’d had someone like Kanan when I was Ezra’s age,” he tells the ceiling, his voice soft, sad. “I wish someone had known. Other than me.”

Zeb blinks at him, his throat empty around the aching in his chest, and that must show on his face, if the way Kallus chuckles when he tips his chin down and looks at him is any indication. “Oh don’t look at me like that,” he says. “Of all the things I’ve found myself needing from you, _pity_ is not among them, and never will be.”

“Pretty sure I pity _everyone_ caught up in this war, to some degree or another,” Zeb says, and Kallus hums agreement, at least. “You, ah. Didn’t tell anyone that you could use the Force back before you enlisted? Not your parents, siblings?”

Kallus shakes his head, the longer strands of his hair falling into his eyes as he does. He doesn't brush them away. “No. Our neighborhood had borne the brunt of several skirmishes between the Jedi and the local crime syndicate, everything from property damage to bystander loss-of-life. There was no love for the wizards in their ivory tower, coming down to the lower neighborhoods only when they felt the urge to fly around in their ‘speeders, sending blaster bolts and bombs off to destroy homes and businesses with a flash of their lightsabers,” he says. “I had daydreams of stopping them with the Force, even before I knew I was capable of such a thing. Stepping out and grabbing them mid-air, ripping their fancy swords from their hands. Making them come down and fix all the things they’d broken, say they were sorry for all the people they’d hurt. To the families of the people they'd killed.” He takes a drink, shaking his head as he swallows. “A child’s foolish fantasies.”

“Dunno, sounds like a decent plan, to me,” Zeb says.

“Yes, well. I overheard my father and mother talking about it one night, when I was five or six standard years old. A neighbor’s child had been visited by a Jedi, from what I understood of their conversation. He was Force-sensitive, but not enough to be taken in by the Order, as I understood it. His grandparents were crushed by the news, they'd been hoping he'd be taken to the Temple to train, but my parents ...” Another sip, this one longer, deeper. Draws a different shudder through Kallus’ frame as he swallows. “My father said that if he ever learned that one of his children had the curse of that cult of zealots, he’d throw us into the by-lanes. For our own good, he said. So, when I realized that I was ... _different_ from my siblings, I knew well enough to keep it to myself.” He shrugs and finishes his drink, his gaze anchored to his glass as he sets it down, the light reflecting off the ice reflecting in his eyes. “A good plan, as it turned out. I suspect I’d’ve been killed in the Temple Massacre, had I not. If my father hadn’t gotten to me first.”

“Makin’ it kind’a hard _not_ to feel sorry for you, here,” Zeb tells him, reaching across the table to refill his glass.

Kallus snorts. “It was for the best, as I said, both in the long- and the short-term. Not only did I survive the purge, but I --" He sighs. "Not being free to use the Force to gain the advantage in combat or in conversation meant I was forced to hone those skills the _natural_ way, skills that very nearly had you and your friends in Imperial hands more times than I care to count, despite _your_ strength and cunning, your unbelievable pilot, your Empire-trained Mandalorian, _and_ your Jedi. Skills that have made me useful enough here that your rebellion hasn’t yet cast me out.”

“Sure, but you’re no slouch with the Force, either,” Zeb says, frowning. “Even before you started teaching yourself how to kick my ass with it, you --”

“I’m still not sure if I regret letting you catch me using it in the first place,” Kallus says. “I should, probably. Regret it.”

“Why’s that? Nobody here’s gonna shove you into traffic, just ‘cause you’re different.”

“That we know of,” Kallus says.

“They’ll have to get past me first if they want to lay a hand on you,” Zeb says, “and they ain’t doing that. Not in one piece, anyway.”

Kallus coughs a weary laugh and lifts his glass in a toast. “Well, thank you, for that,” he says. “It would seem I’ve found my way into your debt, once again.”

“Nah. Ain’t anything I wouldn’t do for the rest’a my family,” Zeb says. “‘S just how it is.”

And if Kallus’ eyes seem a bit brighter, after that, his voice rough on his quiet _thank you,_ well. That’s just how it is, too.

\---

He’s on-edge when he and Zeb walk out to their sparring spot the day following, quiet and stiff and square-shouldered, the dutiful soldier marching out to face the firing squad with dignity and honor. He strips out of his vest when they reach their circle of stones, folding it carefully across one of the lower boulders, but leaves his sweater on, the fine knit showing off his physical strength as he clasps his hands behind his back, standing at attention.

Ezra, by contrast, lounges against one of the taller stones, his back curved and shoulders stuck up under his ears, his eyes wary, tracking Kallus’ every move. Doesn’t shape up even when Kanan nudges him, making a show of unclipping his lightsaber and setting it aside, placing Ezra’s next to it after asking (twice) for Ezra to hand it over.

“I’d like you to try sparring without using the Force, to begin with,” Kanan says. “It’s not often that we have the opportunity to hone our skills against someone with Imperial training, without the fear of being captured or killed.”

“Very well,” Kallus says. “Whenever you’re ready, Bridger.”

Ezra rolls his eyes, but steps forward, the sloppiness in his posture sloughing off into his shadow, leaving him alert and ready, his mouth set in a thin line as he considers Kallus, taking his time before springing in, projecting his first strike so plainly that Kallus blocks it without moving his feet, Ezra ducking around behind him and coming back for another shot, catching a kick to the stomach for his troubles that slows him badly enough for Kallus to grab him, putting him into a bind that Ezra struggles against only a few seconds before Kanan calls the match in Kallus’ favor.

“All right, you’ve got a sense for how he fights,” Kanan says. “Remember it, and try again.”

Ezra grunts assent, brushing himself off, and does as he’s told.

He loses that round, too, and the round that follows, tripping over his own feet and landing square on his ass on the fourth round, stamping his foot in frustration when Kallus sends him back to the ground at the end of the fifth, sweeping his legs out from under him with a predictable, textbook kick.

“I almost had you,” Ezra snaps, ignoring Kallus’ outstretched hand and climbing to his feet under his own power. “Let’s go again. I’ll knock you off your pedestal this time.”

Kallus steps back into ready position and raises his hands. “As you like.”

“I _don’t_ like it,” Ezra says, but he’s attacking as the words are coming out of his mouth, the element of surprise doing him favors for all of two seconds before Kallus gains his footing again and starts counterattacking rather than simply defending, grunting with effort after each blow Ezra manages to land, even when his strikes are sloppy, going wide. His teeth are gritted, his face flush from effort, and it’s starting to look like the fight will shift, that Ezra will gain the upper hand, when Kallus snarls and grabs Ezra by the wrist, his face twisted and feral as he swings Ezra around and down, pinning him.

Zeb’s eyes go wide, realization settling on him like the dust kicked in the field. He _knows_ that move, intimately, knows it carries the weight of the Force behind it whenever Kallus employs it, and he winces in sympathy when Ezra’s back hits the dirt hard enough to drive the breath audibly from his lungs, Kallus immobilizing him immediately, practically smothering the kid.

Ezra takes all of two seconds to get his breath back, and when he does, he doesn’t hesitate to start howling in protest. “That’s not _fair,”_ he says, kicking helplessly. “You’re not supposed to be using the Force!”

“Neither are you,” Kallus says, holding firm.

Ezra struggles under him a little more, to no avail. “You’re _bigger_ than me. You have the advantage.”

“And yet I’m smaller than Darth Vader,” Kallus says. “Do you suppose _he_ would use only his superior size against me, were I to attack him?”

The struggling stops. Kallus relents immediately, pulling Ezra to his feet without offering first, wisely stepping back as soon as Ezra’s got his balance.

“This is _stupid,”_ Ezra sniffs, curling in on himself.

“There, at least, we agree,” Kallus says, earning in answer the sort of glare that would feel right at home on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. “Fighting a disinterested opponent is an exercise in frustration, and _you,_ Ezra Bridger, have given _no_ indication that you hold any interest whatsoever in fighting me.”

Ezra scrunches up his face. “What’s _that_ s’posed to mean?”

“It _means,_ ” Kallus says, “that rather than fighting _me,_ you are fighting _yourself,_ as though you feel you have something to prove, to me or to your teacher or to Garazeb I do not know, but I _do_ know that it is a foolish notion all around. You’ve proven yourself time and again against me, against Inquisitors, against all manner of Imperial Stormtroopers. We’ve _all_ seen what you’re capable of, whether armed with a blaster or your lightsaber or nothing but your wits and your hands and feet. We know -- each of us here and anyone who has _ever_ seen you cornered or been cornered with you -- that you are a force to be reckoned with when you _focus_ and _concentrate_ and _pay attention_ to the enemy before you, and yet I have not seen you do _any_ of that today. So no, I’m not to be using the Force, but if you continue to behave as though _cheating_ is your only option for besting me in combat, then I will meet you cheat for cheat until you remember _who you are_ and knock me to the ground and _keep me there. Without_ cheating.”

He meets Ezra’s glare with one of his own, silence stretched taught as a hangman’s rope between them for all of five seconds before Ezra roars like a wounded animal and launches himself at Kallus, feinting to the right before the strike he was projecting makes contact, his stance dropping and kicking dust into the evening air as he changes direction and throws himself at Kallus’ back, knocking the man’s legs out from under him while Kallus is turning, trying to face him. He blocks Kallus’ attempt to kick him before it’s got any real speed or power built into it, rolls past his attempt to grab him, and has Kallus in a headlock before the dust from his initial attack has settled, pulling Kallus’ head back at such a savage angle that both Kanan and Zeb are stepping forward to stop him, but Ezra relents before they can step in, loosening his grip immediately when Kallus taps out and kicking himself free of Kallus’ weight and stepping back.

"There," Ezra says. "Happy now?"

Kallus coughs. "Yes," he says, his voice rough and lips wet, his hand shaking as he lifts it to rub at the red mark marring his throat. _"That_ is more like it.”

"Yeah, great," Ezra says. “I could’ve killed you, y’know.”

“Undoubtedly. I regularly have nightmares in which you do just that.”

Ezra’s scowl cools, confusion easing the creases between his brows, soothing some of the tension binding his shoulders under his ears. “No you don’t.”

“I stand to gain nothing by lying to you.”

“Yeah, well.” Ezra rubs his nose, looking over at Zeb and Kanan like he’d forgotten they were there, his skin going flush as he drops his gaze to the ground, only looking up when Kallus moves to stand. “You didn’t have to yell at me, you know.”

“I’m an Imperial bastard,” Kallus says. “Yelling is my default approach.”

“It’s a stupid approach.”

“It seems to have worked well enough on you.”

The scowl’s back. “Can we go back to fighting? I like fighting with you better than talking to you.”

Kallus chuckles. “As much as I would love to, I think I might need to take you up on the offer tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll be at a disadvantage if we continue today, and I doubt that would sit well with you. Though please, correct me if I’m wrong.”

Ezra snorts and stretches out his hand, pulling his lightsaber to him with the Force. “Tomorrow,” he says, clipping his 'saber to his belt. “And maybe we can use more than just normal fighting. See how well you can hold up against me like _that.”_

Then he turns and stalks off, sinking his hands into his pockets as he goes. At Zeb’s side, Kanan sighs.

“I guess it’s time for us to have another talk about manners and respecting one’s opponent,” he says. “My favorite. Like teaching a puff-pig poetry. Wastes my time and annoys the pig.” He turns to the sound of Kallus’ boots approaching and straightens, unfolding his arms from his chest. “Thank you for today.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry for Ezra’s rudeness. He’s --”

“I would be suspect of anything else,” Kallus says. “Ezra Bridger is refreshingly honest.”

“You two have that in common,” Kanan says. “Thanks, again. We’ll do it again tomorrow?”

“As many days as we’re able.”

Kanan turns towards Zeb. “That means no drinking tonight, just so you know,” he says, Zeb sputtering in answer, Kallus’ mouth twitching into just the barest hint of smile.

“Taking away all _my_ fun,” Zeb grouses, half-serious, as he and Kallus walk back to base together. “Stealing my sparring partner _and_ my drinking partner, all for a kid with no manners.”

“Bridger has plenty of manners,” Kallus says, “they’re just mostly _bad_ manners, where I’m involved.”

“You’ll knock sense into him soon enough,” Zeb says.

“One can only hope.”

Which sounds _almost_ as entertaining as drinking with Kallus, has Zeb teetering on the edge of actually _looking forward_ to something _other_ than sparring with Kallus himself, his anticipation short-lived and shattered when orders come down a a scant handful of hours later for the Phoenix Squadron to go check out an old Mining Collective waystation. Abandoned, according to intel, but rich with pirated Imperial secrets and a decent collection of explosives to boot, exactly the sort of prize the rebellion needs. Exactly the sort of job for Phoenix Squadron, too, just not when Zeb is trying his best to get some sleep, and _especially_ not when the whole thing is all but guaranteed to put a pause on Kanan’s training plans for Ezra.

“The Empire knows about it and they’re en route to sanitize the operation,” Hera says when Zeb stumbles into the cockpit of the _Ghost,_ groggy where he’d not even been half asleep yet, the rest of the squad looking no better than he feels. “If we want any of what that waystation has to offer, we have to get there first, and get in and out as fast as we can.”

“Can’t just let ‘em have this one, can we?” Zeb wants to know, earning a chorus of filthy looks that only go away when he puts up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. Let’s do this quick so we can go back to bed.”

Hera sighs and shakes her head, presenting all of the with her back as she slides into her flight-seat and launches the _Ghost_ into the night sky.

“The plan’s simple,” she says once they’ve made the jump to hyperspace, turning to take in the sorry state of her crew, all of them sagging with lack of sleep, save for Kallus, who’s doing only a passable job of looking like he’s alert and ready for action. “We’ll land near the weapons hold. Kanan, Sabine, and Ezra will work on securing the bombs while Zeb and Kallus go after the Imperial intel. Chop and I will stay with the ship, ready for immediate evac. This is a smash-and-grab, so be careful not to trip any security functions still active on the station. If we can get away without the Empire knowing we were there, we’d like to. Questions?”

“How long has the waystation been abandoned?” Kallus wants to know, “and do we know _why_ it was abandoned? The Mining Collective tends towards jealously guarding their assets, and are not wont to leave them behind lightly.”

“From what our sources tell us, they didn’t realize they were taking on Imperial secrets,” Hera says. “Once they realized what they had, and what that could mean for them and their continued operations, they dropped the station and ran.”

“And how long will we have until the Empire arrives to take what is theirs?”

“Not very long,” Hera says. “But we’ve done similar runs with a tighter window. We can do this.”

“Yes. Of _that_ I have no doubt.”

Hera’s frown softens. “We’ll be there in ten. Do whatever you need to get ready.”

The station is dark and lifeless when they drop out of hyperspace and make their approach, circling the upper tower once before descending to the weapons bay, the foreboding breath of stale recycled air giving Zeb a decidedly bad feeling about the whole thing as he tramps down the _Ghost's_ access ramp. He keeps that to himself, trusting Kallus at his back as he navigates through the dizzying spiral of corridors to the central comms deck at the station's core.

They’re nearly there, just one level off, when he mis-steps, so eager to reach their goal that he’s not minding his footing, and slices his foot open on a raw edge of damaged flooring, the pain firing up the muscles of his leg twisting nausea into his gut, his teeth clenched around the shout of surprise and pain he barely keeps to his own throat.

“What’s wrong?” Kallus says, catching him when he stumbles.

“Cut myself. _Karabast,_ that hurts.”

Kallus switches on his glowtorch. “Where.”

“Floor panel, to my right, just behind us.”

A sigh. “I meant where on _you._ Where are you injured.”

“Oh. Right foot. It’s probably not a big deal, just surprised me, ‘s all.”

Kallus crouches down, the dark metal of the corridor swallowing most of the light from the glowtorch as he inspects the damage. “It’s worse than you think,” he says. “I can wrap it, but you’ll need treatment. Soon.”

“Fantastic.”

“Comm Hera and let her know we’ll be delayed. This will only take me a moment to tend, but you’ll be moving more slowly even after I have it bandaged.”

“Yeah. That’s --” Zeb sighs and pulls his commlink from his belt. “I’ll let her know.”

Kallus’ prediction proves correct, much to Zeb’s frustration, his foot screaming agony with each step he takes, bearable only when he balances his weight on the tips of his toes, which has _them_ aching by the time he and Kallus have reached central comms, a muscle in his lower back just starting to throw in its complaints as well. He switches on his glowtorch as well, once they’re inside, frowning as he looks around, the whole place as dark as the inside of a tomb, and just as welcoming to boot, the lack of auxiliary lights making him suspicious even before Kallus swears and leaps backward, two of the wires inside the console he’d been investigating bumping into one another, showering the floor and the toes of Kallus’ boots in sparks.

“There's nothing here,” he says. “The drives have been long ago ripped from their consoles and the security systems have been overridden, but not well. They’re likely to activate, now that we’re here.” He switches off his torch and grabs Zeb’s arm, supporting him well enough for the two of them to retrace their steps, moving more quickly than Zeb could have managed on his own. “Get your team out of here _now._ Before those alarms go off and all of us get caught.”

Zeb bares his teeth, frustration rich in his blood, but comms Hera all the same. “Knew this was too good to be true,” he says. “Hera. We’ve been had. There’s no intel.”

“You’re _sure?”_ Hera says.

“Yeah, we’re sure, and it looks like security’s likely to tell the whole damn galaxy we’re here, too. What's the progress on securing the bombs?”

"Weren't any of those, either, which makes it _look_ like --” An alarm sounds in the background -- proximity warning. Hera swears. “This is a trap. We've got ships incoming. Two TIEs and one Enforcer-class.”

“Oh, this just gets better and better,” Zeb grumbles to Kallus. His foot’s a mass of shrieking pain, Kallus’ grip on him starting to bruise. “Hera, we ain't gonna make it to you in time,” he says into his commlink. “Leave Chop with the _Phantom_ for us and get the hell out of here. Kal and I’ll hide until it’s safe to get out and rendezvous with you.”

“You’re sure you can’t --”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Zeb says, looking at Kallus, who nods. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be,” Hera says. “Chop and the _Phantom_ will be on standby. Get out of there and get back to us safely, you hear me?”

Zeb chuckles. “Yes ma’am.” He eases out of Kallus’ grip and pulls his bo-rifle from his back, checking that it’s set to lethal before leaning against the corridor wall to catch his breath. At his side, Kallus does the same, his posture low and tense, ready for a fight. “We got a plan?”

“Our chances that the _Phantom_ will go unnoticed are decent,” Kallus says, “but given the _Ghost’s_ notoriety, if it’s been detected, it will have whatever squadron’s come here on high alert.”

“Fantastic.”

“We can use that to our advantage, if we’re careful about it,” Kallus continues. “Standard operating procedure would be to check what intel or assets have been taken, and since we’ve not been able to find anything --”

“They might lead us right to it,” Zeb says. “I’m liking the sound’a this plan.” He pushes himself away from the wall and shoulders his bo-rifle. “Take point. I’ve got your back.”

Kallus nods once, then turns and moves quietly down the corridor, Zeb doing a quick sweep of the junction behind them before falling into step at his back, his foot throbbing as they make their way towards the hangar.

What they find in the hangar is a rare display of Imperial ineptitude, the two TIE pilots and a trio of Stormtoopers cowering by their ships, weapons at the ready, while blaster bolts ricochet around the room, sending sparks flying as one of two hit the light fixtures overhead. Their commanding officer is crouched twenty or so paces ahead of them, pinned between two stacks of supply crates, his weapon in one hand and commlink in the other, his voice hoarse as he shouts to his men. It's hard to hear him clearly in all the commotion, but Zeb's ears are good at filtering noise from speech, his hearing sharp as it ever was, and _what_ he's hearing --

"Go," the officer bellows, firing another few rounds from his blaster, aiming randomly. "I'll find another way out, or hide and request transport once it's safe. That's an order. All of you, _go."_

His men hesitate, the 'troopers actually looking at one another, doubt etched throughout their body language, but a renewed round of shooting spurs them to obedience, their _we'll come back for you, sir,_ earnest and honest and maybe even a little desperate, the sound of the ion engines firing up in the cavernous hangar rumbling against Zeb's breastbone, his confusion reflected in the look Kallus gives him. They make their way slowly down to the hangar, moving silently, the hours they've spent sparring together making it easy to read one another's signals, moving as one. The blaster fire in the hangar has ceased by the time they reach its inner edge, the remaining officer climbing to his feet, totally exposed from the thigh up, but he remedies _that_ in short order when Zeb fires a warning shot at him, diving behind the crates with a resounding _thump_ but no answering blaster fire, just the barest hint of his gloved fingers coming up, visible over the edge of the crates.

“Please, don’t shoot me,” he calls over the edge of the crate, his hands trembling a little like he _knows_ he's gambling, putting them up where they’re targets. Not easy targets, but Zeb’s a good shot, so-- “I’m not here as your enemy. I swear.”

“Funny how your ship and your uniform tell a different story,” Zeb growls. “Why don’t you come out here and tell me that to my _face._ See if you can convince me _before_ my triggerfinger gets bored.”

The fingers dip a little lower, definitely trembling now, before they disappear from sight entirely, the sound of scuffling, fabric against fabric, just audible over the hum of the remaining lights. “I brought something as a token of my intentions,” the officer says, his words punctuated by the _thud_ of something solid impacting the floor, then sliding along the smooth durasteel, its glow sparking panic under Zeb’s breastbone. _Grenade,_ he thinks, his heart-rate kicking hard against his ribs, drumming fight-or-flight against the back of his throat, but the object that slides into view doesn’t move like a grenade, its uneven shape making it wobble, and it doesn’t slide very far, either, for all that it was obviously given a hearty shove, the warehouse lights still functioning overhead reflecting off its polished surface, playing against its own internal glow.

It takes Zeb all of half a second to recognize the chunk of meteorite he found on Bahryn, and at his side, Kallus lowers his weapon the barest degree, his eyes wide with surprise he doesn’t cover quickly enough for Zeb to miss it.

“Where the _hell_ did you get that,” Kallus says.

“I just want to talk. Please.”

Zeb tightens his grip on his bo-rifle. “You know who it is back there?” he says to Kallus, keeping his voice low.

“I think so, yes,” Kallus says. “Lyste. Yorgal Lyste, I believe.”

“Yogar,” the crate corrects.

“Lieutenant Lyste,” Kallus says. “That was his rank last I was aware, anyway.” He lowers his weapon but keeps his finger at the trigger, the butt pressed loose against his shoulder, ready to be raised at a moment’s notice. “You can come out. We won’t shoot you.”

“We won’t?” Zeb says, which has the imp -- Lyste -- cowering straight away as he stands up, his hands raised and palms open, what Zeb can see of his eyes under his ridiculous uniform cap wide with animal apprehension. He looks from Zeb to Kallus then back again, keeping his hands where they are as he straightens to his full height. Which isn’t much, only about Ezra’s height. Dwarfed in the yawning cavern of the hangar.

“I’m sorry for the dramatic entry,” he says, to Kallus. “I wanted to speak with you, but I didn’t know how to get in touch. Not without the Grand Admiral finding out.”

“Yes, we’re difficult to find on purpose,” Kallus says. He nods to the meteorite on the floor between them. “Where did you find that.”

“It was among your personal effects.”

“Yes, and?”

“I thought you might want it back.”

Somewhere, deep in the belly of the complex, an alarm sounds. Kallus’ finger twitches where it’s resting against the trigger guard. “If you’re stalling for time --”

“I’m not.”

“You’ll forgive me not believing you,” Kallus says. He looks at Zeb. “Stun him. We’ll take him somewhere secure to interrogate him.”

Zeb grins, switching his bo-rifle to non-lethal. “Never thought you’d ask,” he says, treating the man to the best his bo-rifle has to offer, Lyste’s body hitting the floor with a satisfying _thud_ that’s guaranteed to leave him sore and bruised when he comes around. A fitting complement to the bruises he’ll likely get from Zeb picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder, Zeb thinks as he does just that, none of which could _possibly_ hurt as much as the swollen ache burning in his foot.

“Got a destination in mind?” he says, turning a little raggedly on his good foot, doing his best not to let his discomfort show on his face.

Kallus nods. “We’ll check him for tracking devices while we’re in hyperspace and do a mid-space drop to scan the ship for the same,” he says, crossing the few steps between them and bending to pick up the meteorite, its glow bathing his clothes in a warm, gentle light. “If he’s clear, we’ll take him back to Lothal. Otherwise, we’ll reach out to the _Ghost_ and see what they recommend.”

“Love a man with a plan,” Zeb says, grinning. Kallus doesn’t return the expression, never does when he’s in mission mode, all his years of Imperial conditioning coming out in brilliant force. He pulls his commlink from his belt, casting a quick look at Zeb’s foot. “Chopper. Bring the _Phantom_ to hangar B, and don’t delay. The Empire will be coming back at any moment.”

Chopper chirps affirmation. Kallus nods once, pleased, then reclips his commlink to his belt and pulls Zeb’s free arm up over his shoulder, helping him limp across the hangar, keeping him upright as they wait for their ride.

\---

They make the jump to hyperspace before the Empire can send backup to collect their lost lieutenant, the _Phantom’s_ rumbling as the stars streak past her hull a comfort as Zeb secures their prisoner, shackling him as thoroughly as if he were more than a just a human, and a small human, at that, unarmed and unconscious. His ridiculous hat’s come off partway, knocked askew when Zeb shouldered him, Zeb suspects, so he pulls it off and sets it in the ready-seat at Lyste’s side, taking in the sight of the man as he does, pale skin not quite yet discolored by bruises, framed in dark hair and --

“What’s with Imperials growing your fur out just down the sides’a your face?” he says when the _Phantom_ shudders out of hyperspace, freeing Kallus to come join him in the hold.

“Growing -- oh. Sideburns,” Kallus supplies, reaching up to touch his own. “It’s less common than you might think.”

“He’s got ‘em.”

“Yes, well. It’s not a bad style,” Kallus says, his words clipped, his nose and cheeks warming visibly, even in the dim light of the hold. “Have you scanned him for trackers?”

“Was just about to. Wanted to make sure he couldn’t get out’a these, first,” Zeb says, reaching down and giving the shackles binding Lyste’s wrists a little shake. Lyste stirs, either at the touch or the sound, looking around blearily before going stiff as duraplast at the sight of Zeb leaning in close.

“Morning, sunshine,” Zeb says, offering a grin he’s practiced in the reflector, _just_ to make sure it shows as many of his teeth as possible. It has exactly the effect he’s hoping it’ll have, Lyste pushing himself back into the bare padding of the ready-seat, his eyes dark with fear.

“Stand, if you’re able,” Kallus orders from behind him. “We need to scan you for trackers. If you can’t stand, I’m sure Garazeb would be happy to --”

Lyste stands. From the way he winces, sucking in breath between his teeth, it’s not the most pleasant experience he’s ever had, but he _does_ manage without Zeb touching him, his hands held awkwardly apart from his belly, the chains hanging heavy from his wrists. He keeps his attention focused mostly on Zeb as Kallus scans him, only looking away when Kallus gives him an order to lift his arms or spread his legs, scanning every inch of him.

“He’s clean,” Kallus reports.

“Good,” Zeb says. He looks Lyste in the eye. “For _him,_ especially.”

“I told you,” Lyste says, “I’m not here on behalf of the Empire.”

“If they suspected you as a potential defector, they could have tagged you without your knowledge or consent,” Kallus says, calm as sunrise as he puts the scanner back in its sleeve and tucks it into the storage shelf by the docking ramp. He lifts his commlink. “Chopper, what’s the progress on the _Phantom_ scan?”

Chopper sends back a truly irreverent response that boils down to Kallus leaving him alone until he has something to report, and the way Lyste’s entire _face_ lifts in surprise when Kallus does little more than roll his eyes and say _thank you, Chopper,_ rather than threatening the ‘droid’s continued existence, is almost hilarious.

_Almost._

“So,” Zeb says, drawing the smaller man’s attention back to himself, Lyste tensing up once again, cowering a little, “you telling us you’re defecting, then?”

“Yes. Well -- yes, I suppose that’s -- I don’t think there’s another word for it. So yes.”

“Well there’s a straightforward answer for you,” Zeb says, looking to Kallus, who frowns.

“Indeed.”

Lyste fidgets a little, as best he can while shackled. “I have questions for you,” he says, looking at Kallus. “About the Empire, and the Rebellion. About why you did what you did.”

“I’ve done a great many things in my life,” Kallus sighs. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You betrayed your oath,” Lyste says. “Betrayed your fellow officers and soldiers. All for the benefit of a rebellion you’d made a career of fighting.”

“You are _hardly_ in any position to think I have _any_ reason to answer to --”

“-- because I think I’ve figured it out,” Lyste interrupts, his words tumbling over one another in his haste, “but I need to know, for sure. That I haven’t just made it up, or drawn the wrong conclusions.”

Zeb opens his mouth to ask what the _hell_ that’s supposed to mean, but Kallus’ commlink beeps before he has the chance, Chopper reporting that the _Phantom_ is clean of trackers, noting on the side that he’s bored.

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Kallus tells him. “Set a course for base Alpha-three, please. We’ll chat with our new visitor there.”

Zeb shivers. Alpha-three isn’t half as cold as Bahryn, but it isn’t warm like Lothal, either, nor is it dry, the damp seeping into every corner of the base there so pervasive that he came away with a miserable headcold the last time he was sent there on assignment. Not his idea of a great destination, but as a location chock-full of enough misery to make a prisoner talk ...

He treats Lyste to another grin. “Alpha-three,” he says. “You’re gonna _love_ it.”

“Stay with him,” Kallus says, bumping his hand against the back of Zeb’s wrist, “and get some bacta gel on that cut, at least. I’ll let you know when we’re setting down."

“Right-o,” Zeb says, the grin staying right where he left it as he grabs the medi-kit from the far wall takes one of the ready-seats across from Lyste, Kallus’ footsteps quick and measured as he resumes his flight-seat and plunges them back into hyperspace.

_Author’s ruminations_

To be completely honest, I wrote up a whooooole bunch of stuff with Lyste, then worked backwards from it, hoping to connect the dots, and then there was so much of _that_ that we’re now stuck with an entire chapter and barely any Lyste? Whoops. But hey, Ezra got his ass handed to him a few times in the process, and I got to ruminate on Kallus’ past, so ...?

... and then in writing out my thoughts here, I came up with some more interesting shit I need to go work through in some more fiction. Lemme know if you like where this is going because, uh. I think there might be considerably more where it came from, ~~please send help~~. (Edit 16 Jan 2021: it's in chapter 5, for the curious, the notion that came to me writing notes to this chapter.) ;^_^  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the Rebellion gets to know Yogar Lyste better.

**Brute Force**

_part iv_

The skies over Alpha-three are thick with clouds when Kallus takes the _Phantom_ down into the atmosphere, clouds dumping enthusiastic quantities of rain onto the landscape below, much to Chopper’s squawking displeasure, his diatribe fizzling out only when Kallus has landed them safely in the shelter of the hangar, water running off the _Phantom’s_ contours in rivulets, making Chopper’s wheels splash as he descends. He doesn’t stick around long enough for Zeb to promise to oil him, doesn’t seem to _need_ Zeb to oil him, either, making a beeline for one of the engineers Zeb thinks he maybe remembers seeing the last time he was planet-side, a middle-aged Rodian who squats down to say hello to Chopper straight away, her expression warm as she talks to him. Which is fine by Zeb; preferable, even, frees him up to get a good grip on Lyste’s upper arm and walk him across the hangar to the officer Kallus is talking to, Lyste quiet and obedient at his side.

“We can hold him for you for a few days, at least,” the officer is saying when Zeb’s gotten close enough to hear him, “so long as he’s not going to bring the Empire to us.”

“We checked him and our ship for trackers before setting our course,” Kallus says. “He is, to the best of our knowledge, clean.”

The officer claps Kallus on the shoulder—Correllian, Zeb thinks, given his accent and his overall friendly nature—and turns to look Lyste up and down, his hand staying on Kallus’ shoulder the whole time. “Much appreciated,” he says. “Holding cells’re down this corridor and to your left, end of section B. Should be easy enough to find your way, but you can ask around if you can’t find it.”

“Thank you,” Kallus says, waiting for the officer to take his hand away before turning his boots towards the corridor, Zeb jostling Lyste into motion and following along behind. 

They relieve their captive of his shackles once he’s secured in one of the cells, leave him to sweat over what might be awaiting him while Zeb asks after temporary housing for them to use while they wait for Kanan to join them, their hosts gracious enough to assign them a bunk, one with a decent heater and no visible mold crawling up the corners to the ceiling, even, for all that the damp has seeped into Zeb’s fur already, making his jumpsuit pull funny when he walks. He turns to complain about it to Kallus, temper hot on his tongue, but the words evaporate in his mouth at the sight of Kallus setting down the meteorite on the pillow of his bunk, handling it with such reverence that Zeb feels like a voyeur, watching, his nose going sweaty when Kallus notices him looking.

“Of the belongings I left behind,” Kallus says quietly, dragging his fingertips across the meteorite's smooth, curved surface, “this was the only one I truly regretted losing.” He looks at Zeb, a wan smile answering whatever expression he finds there. “I thought I’d never see it again. I thought surely Thrawn would have had it destroyed.”

“Kind’a surprised you kept it, honestly,” Zeb says. “Wouldn’t’a pegged you to be the sentimental type.”

“I’m not,” Kallus says, “but this ...” He sinks down onto the mattress and pulls the meteorite into his lap, turning it slowly in his hands, its glow reflecting in his eyes, bringing out the spots sprinkled across his skin. _“This_ was a constant reminder, once I had returned to my post, of your challenge to me on Bahryn. Not unlike a sharp pebble in my boot, pricking at me whenever asking questions began to feel frightening, or lending assistance to the Rebellion began to feel like the suicidally foolish endeavor it was.”

“Can’t tell if I’m getting credit or blame, here.”

Kallus chuckles softly and sets the meteorite aside. “Both,” he says. “And it would seem you’re getting both for Lyste as well, by extension.”

“Not sure how much’a that I actually _want,”_ Zeb says, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’re our chances he’s telling the truth, d’you figure?”

“Academically? I couldn’t even begin to guess,” Kallus says. “Going off my gut, I would hazard our chances are decently high. Lyste is—” He sighs, pushing himself to his feet. “When I knew him, he was a young, idealistic fool, the sort of overachiever who threw himself fully into every assignment he was given, as if he had something to prove, then took it _personally_ whenever he failed. He was so _desperate_ for approval that he—” He stops and shakes his head. “This doesn’t seem the sort of tactic he would use underhandedly, is what I’m saying.”

“Well _that’s_ a comfort,” Zeb says.

“Marginally, yes. I _am_ curious to hear his reasons for defecting, though. Of all the junior officers with whom I served, he would have been one of the last I would have _ever_ expected to turn his back on the Empire.”

“Ranked just above you, if I were put in charge’a making that list,” Zeb tells him, pleased when Kallus smiles in answer, reaching up to push his hair away from his eyes, the damp weighing it, making it droop. “Kanan’ll get it out of him, whatever his reasons were. Are. And if he can’t, _I_ can.”

“I have no doubt of Jarrus’ skills,” Kallus says. He looks down, tipping his chin towards Zeb’s bandages. “You should have that looked at while we wait for the others.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Kallus puts his hand against Zeb’s elbow, pushing gently. “Go. I’ll wait for the _Ghost_ and notify you when they arrive.”

“All right. Shouldn’t take all that long, though.”

“Indeed.”

He’s wrong about that—they both are, maybe—his visit to Medical stretching to fill nearly an hour, the last ten minutes of which Zeb spends lying on his back, baring his teeth at the bland, sterile ceiling, his claws anchored in the bed under him while the medic on duty pokes and prods at his foot, insisting on washing and _shaving_ it before he’ll give Zeb any kind of anaesthesia, then grumbling about the cut being ragged once he’s got Zeb numbed to the knee and started sewing him up.

“Ain’t heard of bacta on Alpha-three?” Zeb snarls at him when the medic does _something_ he can feel despite the local anaesthesia, pressure pushing against muscle and bone in _all_ the wrong ways.

“Supply lines were interrupted a few weeks ago,” the medic says, prodding some more. “We’ve had to make do with the old ways.”

Zeb grits his teeth and closes his eyes, the room dipping and bending sickeningly around him. “Not a fan.”

The medic sighs. “You’re not the only one. I’m done, for what comfort that might give you. Just need to dress it, now.”

Zeb _doesn’t_ cry in relief, but the thought crosses his mind. He sits up, wincing at the pale skin visible where his foot’s been shaved, far more than it needed to be, in his opinion, the bulk of the bandages the medic wraps around his foot only just bringing it even with what fur remains.

“I gave you enough local numbing that it shouldn’t trouble you for the rest of the day, but it _will_ regain feeling while you’re sleeping tonight, so you’ll want to take these before you turn in,” the medic says, handing Zeb a sachet of pills. “Healing will be slow until you can get some bacta onto your stitches, so stay off the foot as much as you can, and try not to do anything high-impact. Jumping, running, kicking.”

“That’s _all_ I do,” Zeb tells him.

“Then make sure you get to a medic to get your stitches redone as soon as you’ve ripped them out,” the medic says, not a shred of humor in his expression or tone.

Zeb takes the pills and leaves.

He finds Kallus in the Security wing, seated at one of the consoles with a headset covering his ears and a solid five on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale aimed at the screen, his attention so completely focused on the feed of Kanan and Lyste sitting across from one another in a small interrogation room, talking, that he jumps when Zeb touches him on the shoulder, his attempts to get the man’s attention by saying his name having gone ignored or unnoticed.

“Got started without me, did ya,” Zeb says when Kallus regains some of his composure and says _hello, Garazeb,_ leaning back so Zeb can see the screen more easily. “He come out with anything interesting yet?”

“No. They’ve been talking circles around one another. Jarrus’ patience is commendable.”

Zeb chuckles. “Shouldn’t surprise you,” he says. “You’ve seen what he’s stuck training.”

Kallus’ frown lightens ever-so-slightly. “Very true,” he says. He glances away from the screen, looking down at Zeb’s foot. “How’s your injury?”

“Fine. No bacta on Alpha-three, courtesy the Empire, though.”

“Then you should sit,” Kallus says, standing, holding up his hand when Zeb starts to tell him he’s _fine._ Which he probably is, not that he can tell for sure one way or the other through the anaesthesia, but. “I’m going to go down and spell Jarrus, anyway, see if I can get anything out of Lyste," Kallus says. "He keeps insisting that he wants to talk to me. Might as well give him what he wants, see if we can get anything out of it.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Zeb says, easing himself down into Kallus’ seat.

“No. But it’s worth a try, as I said,” Kallus says. “I’ll have Jarrus with me, but I would like, if possible, for you to remain here and listen in as well. I’m likely to know the right questions to ask, but it would be good to have you here to hear the answers. I don’t trust myself to avoid bias.”

“Fair enough. What bias?”

Kallus arches an eyebrow at him. “It’d bias you if I told you.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’ll tell you after,” Kallus promises. “Fair?”

“Fair as I’m likely to get,” Zeb grumbles, and Kallus doesn’t turn away quite quickly enough to hide his amusement.

Lyste brightens when the guard admits Kallus to the interrogation cell, his whole face lighting up at the sight of the man, projecting his emotions so clearly that Zeb catches himself wondering if perhaps he’s grown used to his cap covering his face, hiding his expressions from the world. Kallus, for his part, returns none of Lyste’s enthusiasm, sitting stiffly at Kanan’s side at the opposite side of the table.

“I understand that you wanted to speak with me,” he says.

“Yes, please.”

“This is your opportunity, then,” Kallus says, “though I have some questions of my own for you, first.”

“Of course. You can go first, if you want.”

Kallus sighs, the sound prickling over the headset, making Zeb’s ears hurt, curling uncomfortably under the ear-caps. “You said that you’d wanted to send a message to the Rebellion, but were unable to, due to heightened security,” Kallus says. “Had you been able, what message would you have sent?”

“I would have asked if we could talk. You and I,” Lyste says.

“About?”

Lyste hesitates, darting a glance at Kanan before returning his attention to Kallus. “Your reasons for defecting," he says. "I was put in charge of searching your quarters after you defected, and what I found there left me with questions.”

"Enlighten us," Kanan says.

Lyste barely looks at him. “I volunteered to lead the investigation into your defection, hoping to regain my standing with the Grand Admiral by finding any and all information I could about your defection," he tells Kallus, "and what intel you might have provided the rebels. The things I found, they—I had questions about them. The sort of questions one doesn’t look at too closely in the Empire.”

“You’re talking around something,” Kallus says, “and I’m going on very little sleep. It would behoove us all for you to simply—”

“The meteorite,” Lyste says. “That’s what started it. It was the only item among your personal effects that didn’t have an immediate and obvious association. So I traced its likely origin, based on your mission history.”

“Yes, and?” Kallus says. “There’s hardly anything you could learn from it.”

“I found that it originated from one of the moons of Geonosis,” Lyste says. “Bahryn, specifically. Your files indicated you’d been marooned there once for several hours after a skirmish with Phoenix Squadron. Alone.”

Kallus doesn’t move a muscle. From the way Lyste clears his throat, Zeb can imagine the look Kallus is giving him. It’s not a pleasant look.

“However,” Lyste continues, “given the extent of the injuries you suffered in the crash and your overall well-being upon reclamation, as recorded in the medical files, that didn’t seem right. You’d hidden something, and that meteorite—”

“If you could please get to the point,” Kallus says on a sigh that speaks to actual weariness, not an act put on for the benefit (or detriment) of his target.

“That was the start of it,” Lyste says. “Your work changed, after Bahryn. Datafiles related to your research started to show signs of corruption. Transmission logs were doctored—skillfully, I’ll give you that—to leave enough for us to learn _exactly_ what you wanted us to learn. It was very convincing, at its surface.”

Kallus’ index finger twitches. His triggerfinger. Zeb grins at the sight of it, so quick it’s possible Lyste’s missed it. Maybe.

“I _knew_ there had to be more,” Lyste says. “I was ordered to drop it and move on, but—it _bothered_ me. You were my _hero,_ the great Agent Kallus who’d taken on two Jedi, who'd fought alongside Inquisitors, and then one day you turn your back on all of it, on all of _us,_ and—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “It took the better part of a month to find your personal logs, and nearly half that again to decrypt them, but I _did_ find them. And decrypt them.”

Kallus goes very still, his trigger finger twitching again when he speaks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

He isn’t very convincing, even with his back to Zeb. From the way Lyste’s face scrunches, his head cocking to the side in confusion, he’s not buying it either. “Yes you do,” he says. “Your personal logs, the ones you saved on the terraforming servers, buried under all the historical—”

“Those logs were triple-encrypted and programmed to delete themselves after a set period of time,” Kallus snaps. “There is _no way_ you could have accessed them, even if you _did_ find them.”

“The deletion command had been configured wrong," Lyste says, "and they weren’t _that_ difficult to—my focus at the Academy was in cryptography and information security, and—you encrypted them yourself, I’m assuming? The algorithm you used looked like something you’d find if you looked up encryption methods on the holonet. So they weren’t—it wasn't the strongest encryption, is what I’m saying. Decently easy to break.”

Kallus sighs, the sound of it like static in Zeb’s ears once again. “And what did you find in these files?” he says, resignedly.

“Lies, I thought, at first. Propaganda you were going to use to seed distrust among the ranks, had you not been caught. Things the Empire had done, with evidence supporting _why_ it had done them the way they’d been done—like the massacre on Geonosis, the massacre on Lasan.”

“It was hardly propaganda,” Kallus says.

“No, that’s what—I know _now_ that it wasn’t,” Lyste says. “I looked into some of it for myself, wanting to disprove what you'd recorded, and I couldn’t find _any_ evidence that it wasn’t exactly as you’d presented it. _All_ of it. And then—” He swallows, sitting up a little straighter, Imperial training settling over him like a frost. “Do you remember Lieutenant Ta’belig? You served together a few years ago.”

“I do. From Arkanis, I believe.”

“Yes."

"What of him?"

"He was caught trying to send encrypted messages to the Rebellion," Lyste says. "Swore to the very end that he’d intended it to be a trap, to earn the Rebels’ trust so that he could deliver them to the Grand Admiral.”

“To the very end,” Kallus echoes.

Lyste dips his chin in an aborted nod. “They executed him for it,” he says. “The Grand Admiral did it himself. Shot him in the head, then ordered the ‘troopers on duty to drag his body out, uncovered, to make an example of him. So that everyone would see it."

“Surely that didn’t surprise you or anyone else."

“No. But it was a preview of my own fate, if I stayed. If I continued chasing the questions you’d posed for yourself, or if it was discovered that I'd been investigating you."

"I see."

"I was so _angry_ after what you did," Lyste says, "after you framed me, and the Grand Admiral and Governor Pryce _believed_ you and had me arrested, despite all I'd done to prove my loyalty. So focused on reclaiming my good standing that I’d disobeyed direct orders to drop my investigations into you, thinking that I would find something of use and deliver it—and you—to the Grand Admiral. But after Ta’belig, after they killed him without even _listening_ to him, without checking to see if he’d been telling the truth ...”

He lifts his chin, looking Kallus in the eye, finally, his shoulders squared, hands stilled where they rest in his lap. “I knew that day that my fate was already sealed. I was dead in the eyes of the Empire, whether my life had been ended already or not. It was only a matter of time. And since I was going to die, I thought I might as well die knowing the truth. And, if possible, fighting on the side that I, to the extent possible, agree with. Morally, if not politically.”

“Very admirable of you,” Kallus says, dryly. “There are simpler ways to defect and join the rebellion’s efforts, though.”

“Yes, but I wanted to talk to _you,”_ Lyste says. “To ask about how it happened for you. Because unlike me, I don’t think you defected because of the information you learned, or because you suddenly decided the Empire was evil.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes.”

Kallus sighs. “Well, I suppose _technically_ I defected because I’d been found out,” he says. “I’d have been executed, had I stayed.”

“Publicly and painfully, yes,” Lyste agrees, no hesitation to it, raising every hair along Zeb’s arms and down his sides. “But that isn’t—after everything, after all you knew, you chose to stay on. As a spy. I thought maybe I'd figured out why, and then today—"

"Again, if you could _please_ get to the point you're trying to make."

Lyste frowns. "You left for the lasat," he says, "didn't you. Because you're in love with him.”

Zeb’s heart stutters, surprise flashing down his skin like a hot breath. On screen, Kallus doesn’t move, nor does Kanan, both of them as still as if carved from stone, a long thread of silence pulling taut before Kallus says, “I beg your pardon.”

"The lasat. Garazeb Orrelios," Lyste says.

“Yes, I _know_ to whom you’re referring,” Kallus says. “What gave you the idea that—”

“He could have killed you on Bahryn,” Lyste says. “You said so yourself. Instead, he saved your life. Treated you, in your own words, like an individual, rather than as the face of the Empire. You did as he told you, asking questions you _knew_ better than to ask, if not for your career, then for your own safety. Then you started supporting his cause, to the detriment of your own, and when you were caught, he came to your rescue. _Again._ He risked everything to save you at Atollon—”

“His _squadron_ saved me at Atollon,” Kallus corrects. “Hera Syndulla deserves the credit, if anyone, for catching the escape pod I was in.”

“—then the way you two were acting when you took me in,” Lyste says, as if Kallus hasn’t spoken, “that’s not—you _never_ acted like that with anyone, before. And you kept the meteorite from Bahryn. You had it right there in your assigned quarters. You didn’t even _try_ to hide it.”

“That is circumstantial evidence, at best.”

“But—”

“Your thinking is very small, and is keeping you from seeing the bigger picture,” Kallus says, raising his voice just a hair, quieting the objections Lyste had likely opened his mouth to voice. “All of the things I’ve done since Bahryn—looking into the decisions and ramifications of the Empire’s actions, spying on behalf of the Rebellion, defecting to their cause— _all_ of that, I chose to do not for Garazeb, but because—” He gestures, his hand dropping to the table with a tired _thump._ “Because I had forgotten how it felt to _care_ about something, something bigger than myself. All of my struggles, my failures, my victories, they seemed so _small,_ so insignificant in comparison to what the Empire was doing, and the Rebellion's actions in response. I’d spent _years_ trying to capture the elusive Phoenix Squadron, I _obsessed_ over it, just as it seems you obsessed over me. Had I managed to bring them in and hand them over to Thrawn, that would have been a personal victory, yes, and it would have done my military career no harm, but ... at a larger scale, in the grand scheme of things—my _god.”_

Kallus leans back, running his hand through his hair, the video feed bleaching the strands almost blonde under the bright light of the cell. “Orders I accepted and followed led to the genocide of entire civilizations,” he says. “I— _personally,_ as the commanding officer following orders—prevented civilians from receiving food and medical supplies. Ordered strikes that ended with casualties among those who had _nothing_ to do with the war. The young, the old. Those who had no voice, no way to protect themselves or fight back. Yes, Garazeb was the inciting factor, he was the first to get me to _listen,_ to take a step back and really _look_ at what I was doing, to ask questions and not be afraid of the answers, but—”

He sighs, his body sagging around the loss of breath, his back curving, elbows resting heavily on the table between them. “When I decided I could no longer be a part of that, when I decided to defect, I did so, much like I had done all that I did in service of the Empire: _selfishly._ Following what _I_ felt was right. So no, to answer your question. I did not do any of it because I was in love with Garazeb.”

“Oh.” Lyste frowns. “Are you, though? In love with him?”

“Does it matter if I am or not?”

“No, but—”

“Does it have any bearing on your decision to defect?” Kallus says. “To put Jarrus’ and your own squadron at risk? Surely you didn’t do that just to ask me if I’m in love with someone.”

“No.”

“Then—”

“My squadron is still out there,” Lyste says.

"They won't find you," Kallus says. "Unless you've found a way to communicate with them from your cell."

"I haven't," Lyste says, "and they're not looking for me, either. They're—it's just three ‘troopers and two TIE pilots. All five interested in joining the Rebellion, if you’ll have them."

 _"What,"_ Kallus says.

"In my efforts on behalf of the Empire, in my final weeks, I discovered their intentions to defect," Lyste says. "I offered them the chance, so long as they assisted me in finding you.”

“Where are they?” Kanan says.

“Skjule. They’ll be on the northern island, awaiting the code phrase _by the light of Geonosis' moon,"_ Lyste says. "They’re prepared to surrender and be taken in for questioning.”

Kanan pushes himself to his feet. “That would have been good to know at the start of all this.”

“I didn’t want to give them up until I knew you weren’t going to kill me or give me over to the Empire.”

“What makes you think we won’t now?” Kanan says.

Lyste’s eyes dart to Kallus; a quick motion, easy to miss, but Zeb doesn’t miss it, the chances that Kanan's missed it, despite his blindness, low as well. “I trust you,” he tells Kanan.

Kanan doesn’t respond immediately, taking his time reaching for his mask and pulling it on, leaving Lyste to sit in his own silence and sweat. “We’ll look into what you’ve told us,” Kanan tells him, finally. “If you have anything else we should know—”

“I don’t,” Lyste says. “But—thank you.” He looks at Kallus. “For everything.”

Kallus doesn’t say a word, his shoulders squared as he stands, turning sharply on his heel and striding from the room, Kanan right behind him, the pair of them only pausing in the corridor long enough to hand Lyste off to the waiting guard, then walking together back to Security.

“—will look into it, see if he’s telling the truth,” Kanan’s saying as they walk in, his hand resting on the hilt of his lightsaber like a nervous habit. “For the time being, I think it would be best if we all got some sleep. We’ll none of us be thinking clearly, as we are.”

“I agree,” Kallus says. “Please let me know how I can be of assistance, once you’re ready to verify his claims.”

“Will do. Thank you for coming down to talk to him, by the way,” Kanan says. “I wasn’t getting anywhere with him on my own.”

Kallus nods awkwardly, his eyes staying fixed on the pattern etched into Kanan’s mask. “I’m glad I could help.”

Kanan puts his hand to Kallus' upper arm, squeezing once. “Get some sleep. Zeb, you too.”

“Almost a full step ahead’a you there,” Zeb says, pushing himself up to stand, his bandaged foot offering muted protest through the layers of anaesthesia and bandaging separating it from the floor, the appeal of taking the pills the medic gave him presenting a strong case as he takes a tentative step forward. “Command was able to get us a bunk—I'm talking _real_ beds, here—when we landed. Betting they could set up something similar for you if you ask.”

“I already have, and they were very accommodating,” Kanan says. “I’ll comm you if something comes up.”

“Aye-aye,” Zeb says, raising his hand in a salute that falls apart the second he puts his weight on his injured foot and loses his balance straight away, either Kanan or Kallus catching him with the Force before he falls, holding him steady for the second it takes Kallus to come to his side, pulling his arm across his shoulders. Steadying him.

“Rest,” Kanan says.

“Yeah. ‘Night, Kanan.”

They make their way awkwardly through the corridors, Zeb shortening his stride to keep pace with Kallus, Kallus adjusting his cadence to account for the rise-and-fall of Zeb’s shoulder, his usual loping gait amplified under the weight of his wound, the quiet between them loud in the echo of thoughts bouncing around between Zeb’s ears, too scattered and discordant for Zeb to pull any one of them down and for consideration, each escaping whenever he tries, wriggling free under the distraction of his foot, of the numbness slow-receding down the length of his leg.

Kallus saves him from himself, albeit waiting until they’re safely tucked away in the privacy of their bunk, shrugging off his vest and pushing up the sleeves of his sweater, the fur of his forearms fluffing more than usual in the humidity pressing against every surface of the room like a tongue. “I’m not usually given to surprise, in part thanks to my ... abilities,” he says, “but I’ll confess, I saw very little of that conversation coming before it had arrived before me.”

He sounds almost grumpy about it, of all things, his lower lip not quite sticking out in a pout, but it wouldn’t be out of place if it were, his shoulders rounded as he sits down on the edge of his bunk and plucks the meteorite from his pillow, worrying it in his hands, loose-clasped in the V of his thighs. “What did you make of it?”

“Found it entertaining, if I’m honest,” Zeb says. “Enlightening. Little bit reassuring, even.”

Kallus frowns. “How so?”

“Well, he ain’t a spy for the Empire, for one,” Zeb says. “Always a big plus. And he’s not an idiot, either. So long as we’re careful bringing his friends in, we won’t be bringing the Empire in for a chat. Also always a plus.”

“Has he won your trust so easily?” Kallus says.

“Nah, but Kanan’s good at sniffing out liars and spies. He’d’ve known if Lyste was hiding anything. Other’n the fact that he’s got a big ol’ crush on _you.”_

Kallus’ face drops into the _best_ look of surprise Zeb’s ever seen on a human, his eyes wide and mouth open for the full, glorious second it takes him to recover, reining it all back in into a two or three on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. “He has not.”

Zeb chuckles. “Sure he has. Spent all his free time obsessing over you, readin’ your diary, holding onto your most precious possession. Be kind’a surprising if he _didn’t.”_

“That hardly seems sufficient motivation for us to trust him.”

Zeb shrugs and takes a seat at Kallus’ side, saving his foot from the weight of his own body. “Seen other imps defect for less,” he says. “Ain’t all that big’a surprise this one’d leave behind the Empire for you. Said so himself, didn't he? That you were his hero."

Kallus snorts. "I am hardly anyone's hero."

"He _just_ said—"

"I was tasked with keeping Imperial control on Lothal," Kallus interrupts, "and failed because of a small, mismatched group of Rebels and a street rat. A _child._ Then in my pursuit of regaining my _dignity_ —and failing, time and again—I learned things no self-respecting Imperial should know, and now I'm a traitor to the Empire and a Rebel myself. Anything heroic I might have done was long in the past by the time Lyste and I occupied a similar physical space together."

"Should tell him that," Zeb says. _"Exactly_ like that. See what color that pale skin'a his turns."

Kallus rolls his eyes. "You're not taking this seriously."

"Am too. Didn't occur to me that's what was going on with him 'til he asked if you left 'cause'a how you feel about me, but—that’s him projecting a parsec, at least,” Zeb says. "Ask Kanan, if you don't believe me. He'll tell you the same thing, I'd bet anything on it."

The glare goes up a notch. “Well. That’s foolish.”

“Dunno. I think it’s kind’a sweet.”

“And that’s foolish, too.”

The meteorite in his hands illuminates every wrinkle where his face is still stuck in its glare, which makes him look so much like Ezra when Ezra’s pouting over something that Zeb almost gives in to the temptation to _tell_ him he looks like Ezra when Ezra’s pouting, but he resists. “Don’t see anything wrong with it, especially.”

"Well, it's _embarrassing,_ for one," Kallus says, half under his breath, and Zeb doesn't mean to laugh at him, really he doesn't, but it slips out all the same, the strain of the last few days and the drugs in his system mixing into a potent levity, Kallus' fluster so precious to him that he doesn't consciously process the urge to _touch_ before he's tipping his chin down, rubbing it against Kallus' temple. Electric panic hits him a quarter of a second later when his conscious mind catches up and notices what he's done, but Kallus doesn't jerk back or push him away, doesn't demand to know what he thinks he's doing. He waits, alert like he is when they're sparring and he's trying to determine what's a feint and what's an attack, his breath trapped tight in his ribcage before he ebbs into motion once again, sighing resignation that barely brushes the fur of Zeb's chest, then tips his head back the barest inch, gently butting his forehead up against the line of Zeb's jaw.

Zeb freezes. He’s been on the receiving end of human affections before—a pat on the shoulder from Kanan here, a hug from Sabine there. Even Ezra’s been grudgingly affectionate with him a few times, usually in the form of punching him gently in the chest or back, then not struggling to get away when Zeb grabs him and messes up his hair. Nothing like this, though, Kallus settling cautiously against him, not quite leaning into him, his cheek pressed against the pulse-point in Zeb’s throat, his breath ruffling the fine hairs under Zeb’s chin. Comforting and comfortable, the sort of thing Zeb hadn’t ever thought about losing after the war, not really, hadn’t allowed himself to miss, the emptiness left where it once was swelling up in his belly, rising up on a cry he swallows like glass in his throat. He lifts his arm and wraps it awkwardly around Kallus’ shoulders when Kallus doesn’t pull away, keeping him close, and Kallus doesn’t shrug him off, staying still, save for the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, his breath warm where it filters through Zeb’s fur.

“What happens when I turn him down?” he says after what feels like a long time, his voice rumbling down the line of Zeb's throat to his chest. 

"Hm?"

"Lyste," Kallus says. “What happens when—assuming that your assessment of his feelings is correct, of course—I tell him I don’t have any affection for him?"

He pulls away as he speaks, the loss of his body heat tempting Zeb to pull him back, where he belongs. Zeb resists. 

"He'll get over it," he says. "Maybe have a good long cry, or go out and get drunk. That's what humans usually do when they get rejected, isn't it?"

Kallus snorts softly and shakes his head, his hands worrying the meteorite where it sits in his lap. "No," he says, "I meant—does he then take what he’s learned and give it back to the Empire in order to return to its good graces, or try to take me prisoner as an offering to the Grand Admiral. Create a situation where we have to make a hard decision about how to handle him. That sort of thing.”

“He won't do any'a that if he likes being alive,” Zeb says. “And it ain’t—" He sighs. "Look, most’a the time when this happens, it’s an imp who’s fallen for a civvie, right? Someone they met during an occupation or a siege, someone they fancied, or who got under their skin well enough to make ‘em reconsider what they were doing in the uniform, what it’s all for in the long-run. Big picture, like what happened to you after Bahryn. Most times, they’ll come out with it, tell whoever it is that they love ‘em, and most’a the time, it goes all right for ‘em. They get a few months of kissing and kriffing and the like, then they drift apart. You know how it is, it ain’t love when it’s a captor and their captive, not really, and a _lot’a_ changes happen in the first couple’a months an imp’s with the Rebellion.” He shrugs again. “Doesn’t last, like I said. Some stay friends. Some don't. What _doesn’t_ happen, though, even when it ain’t the nicest break-up, is the imp running back to the Empire. Never. Nobody even _tries.”_

Kallus nods, his posture tightening just the barest degree, almost imperceptible, but Zeb's fought him enough to notice even the smallest shift, knows where to look. “I can imagine they wouldn’t,” he says, quietly. “The Empire is not so desperate as to be _forgiving.”_

“That’s the point I’m tryin’a make,” Zeb says. “So your admirer down there—he’ll be in puppy love with you for a while, but he’ll get over it. And we’ll keep an eye on him 'til he does, make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.”

“A _close_ eye,” Kallus says. He sighs. “He was always so clever, had such _potential._ I’m struggling to believe he would make such a rash, dangerous, _foolish—”_

“Don’t think it was rash,” Zeb says. “Or foolish, like I said. Dangerous, yeah, but—well, what out here _ain’t_ dangerous. Regardless’a your politics.”

Kallus huffs a sigh. “I suppose.”

“Still think it’s kind’a sweet, how much he looks up to you.”

“It isn’t.” Kallus sighs again, running his hand through his hair. It’s grown longer since Zeb pulled him from the escape pod onto the _Ghost,_ the strands tickling his eyelashes, making him blink in annoyance as he brushes them away. “And I worry that—you know that I didn’t defect for you, don’t you? That what I did—”

“—was for all the right reasons,” Zeb says. “Yeah, I know. Knew even before you spelled it out for Lyste.” He covers Kallus’ hand with his own, feeling the warmth from the meteorite, mingling with Kallus’ body heat. “You’re a good man, Alexsandr. Found that out on Bahryn. Haven’t doubted it since.”

Kallus’ fingers flex under Zeb’s hand, the bunk creaking softly as he leans back, resting his weight against Zeb’s shoulder once again. “Thank you,” he says, softly, his chin tipped down, his hair obscuring his face. “That means more to me than you may know.”

Zeb suspects he might, but he leaves it as is, sitting at Kallus’s side until the need for pain medication compels him to his feet, Kallus silent as he undresses for bed and climbs into his bunk, the meteorite glowing where it sits at the foot of his mattress. Zeb stares at its glow from his own bunk for what feels like a long time, until the weight of the day pulls him under, the rise and fall of Kallus' chest as he breathes hypnotic, comforting.

Exhausted, he doesn't dream.

_Author’s ruminations_  
Dispose of one of your adorably earnest side-characters after he’s served his purpose, will you, canon? Gonna scoop him up and turn him into something more in my own little headcanon if you don’t mind, thank you _ever_ so much ...

I wrote and re-wrote and re-organized this chapter so many times it makes my head spin, but I think I like what I’ve got. There’s plot happening up there somewhere, but let’s be honest, I just wanted to get to the bit where Zeb and Kallus snuggle each other (but don’t be confused, I wrote and re-wrote it a bazillion times, too). This chapter didn’t want to cooperate. Boo I say to it, _boo._

Would there be interest in a side story about Lyste doing his thing and deciding to defect? I have it rumbling around in my greymatter, but only so many hours for writing, so ...

Lemme know, please.  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Zeb is just the _worst_ patient. Ever.

**Brute Force**

_part v_

Kallus dreams.

He’s quiet about it, doesn’t talk or mumble or cry out like Ezra does after they’ve come back from a particularly harrowing mission, but the room he and Zeb have been assigned is small, the space between their beds tight enough that Zeb could reach across and touch the edge of Kallus’ bed with his claws if he wanted, the ceiling low and close, trapping the sound of Kallus’ body moving against his bedsheets, the sharp edge of his breathing breaking against the wall, catching in the sensitive fur of Zeb’s ears, familiarity drawing him to wakefulness, slurred under the glow of the meteorite at Kallus' feet. His posture's tight, muscles taught beneath the fabric of his undershirt, twitching with each aborted motion, illustrating the illusions he plays out as he sleeps. It’s nothing pleasant, Zeb would wager, given the tension in Kallus’ shoulders, pained and frightened and furious, his trigger finger flexing against his shoulder where he holds himself in a tight hug, battles long since done waged again and again behind his eyes. Torturing him.

“Kallus,” Zeb says without moving from where he is, distance always a good idea when a soldier’s reliving his past.

Nothing. Kallus’ shoulders shudder.

“Hey. Kal.”

A pained whine threads past Kallus’ lips, his entire body rippling in another shudder that terminates in a stiff, sudden jerk, his breathing coming short and shallow, twisted in his throat, but he doesn’t wake.

Zeb sits up. “Alexsandr,” he says, raising his voice just a bit, loud in their little room, but it does the trick, Kallus sucking in a sharp breath and opening his eyes, confusion and lingering sleep fighting for custody over him as he pushes himself up and looks around, disoriented, his posture sagging in relief when he sees Zeb, reality coming back to him. Zeb chuckles.

“You back with me?”

“I am. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just looked like you were having a dream you maybe didn’t need to be having.”

It’s too dark in the room for him to see if Kallus’ face flushes, but he’s been around the man long enough that he’s relatively confident that it does. “Oh. I apologize if I woke you. I’m not usually given to talking in my sleep.”

“Didn’t wake me,” Zeb says. “Weren’t talking, either, just — looked like it wasn’t a good dream, whatever it was.”

“It wasn’t, no.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Mm.” Kallus lies back down, fumbling with his blanket a little, arguing it into a position flat enough that it covers him up to his neck, only to then snake his arm free, folding it over the blanket’s edge. “What woke you, then,” he says around a yawn, “if not me?”

“Dunno. Wasn’t all that deeply asleep, I guess.”

“Might it have been your injury?” Kallus says, his fur scrubbing against his pillow as he tips his chin down to look at Zeb’s injured foot, kicked out from under the blanket where the bandages had been catching, bugging him.

“Could’a been, maybe.” Zeb flexes his toes, his stitches informing him _loudly_ that he won’t be doing that again anytime soon, not without punishment. “Yeah. Probably.”

Kallus pushes himself up on his elbow. “There should be bacta on the _Phantom,_ in the first aid kit.”

“Nah, there isn’t,” Zeb says. “Checked when we were on our way out here. Ain’t like we need it all that often, so I guess we never replaced it when we used up the last of it.”

“Oh.”

“Ain’t a big deal. It’s not so bad. I can sleep.”

“You should, then. That, in the absence of bacta, will help your injury heal.”

Zeb chuckles. “You’re starting to sound like my grandmother,” he says as he lies back down, the thought of how Chava might react to Kallus bringing a chuckle to his throat as he closes his eyes, drawing humor in on a long breath that he exhales under the weight of the day, the mental images playing across his imagination as warm as the glow of the meteorite at the other end of the room, casting the shadow of Kallus’ legs long across the beds.

He’s still awake when another dream seizes Kallus’ body into a snarl, tugging it in on itself as he sleeps, the sight of him drawing pity up Zeb’s breastbone as he watches. He waits, hoping Kallus will say something, will give away some hint of what he’s seeing in his dreams, but Kallus is silent in his suffering, save for a soft, heartbreaking whimper, muffled where he pulls the blankets up, obscuring his face.

They leave the following day with Hera and Kanan to retrieve Lyste’s wayward band of defectors, Kallus covering the poor night’s sleep he’s had with a frown that could easily crack a planet in half, the expression only easing up a degree or two when Zeb teases him for it, poking him gently in the cheek, just for the way his fur feels against his fingers.

“Face’ll get stuck if you leave it like that too long,” Zeb tells him.

“That is entirely untrue,” Kallus says, “otherwise it would have gotten stuck years ago,” his tone so serious that it takes Zeb a full ten seconds to realize it’s a joke, laughter rumbling warm in his chest as Hera takes them down into the atmosphere, settling into a holding pattern while Zeb and Kallus take the _Phantom_ down, scanning for their targets.

They’re not hard to find, the northern island small and flat, the remnants of what looks like it might have been a settlement decades before the best but most obvious shelter, the _Phantom’s_ scanners picking up heat from a hastily doused fire, a lifeforms scan revealing five humans huddled together, barely concealed behind a crumbling duracrete wall. Pathetic and frightened, from what Zeb can tell, but there’s fight left in them yet, their blasters raised when Zeb and Kallus step out of the _Phantom,_ muzzles reflecting the hazy starshine filtering through the clouds overhead, what little cover the rolling fields offer put to good use, concealing as much of them as they can manage. Pathetic, even for Imperial foot soldiers, and pity paints an ugly stripe down Zeb’s throat at the sight of them, men worn down to little more than the desire to die fighting, to die with honor. Holding hope for little more than a swift death, perhaps even one without pain.

Until one of them shoots him, anyway, his injured foot keeping him from dodging quickly enough, the bolt grazing his chest, burning past the fabric of his jumpsuit to singe fur and flesh, pain tearing needles through his nerve-endings, driving the breath from his lungs. Kallus is between him and the men in an instant, bo-rifle raised and recoiling as he fires two warning shots in rapid succession, driving the men back behind the crumbling wall, the stench of fear and ozone thick in the afternoon air.

“Hold your fire,” he shouts down the sight of his weapon, his voice deep and threatening; his commander voice, well-honed to capture and hold attention. “By the light of Geonosis’ moon, we are not your enemies.”

The words move like poetry from his tongue, the hot breath of hesitation hanging heavy across the field, stifling in silence broken only when one of the men actually _sobs_ in relief, the sound loud and raw, honest. “Is that Agent Kallus?” another one calls, the barest hint of brown hair bobbing up past the crumbled edge of stone.

“Formerly, yes.”

There’s a skirmish of quiet conversation, the cluster of men coming out from behind the crumbling compound wall and tossing their blasters into the dirt straight away, three of them leading, their hands up and palms out, the other two trailing behind, one supporting the other, his injured companion’s gait awkward and pained, his left leg dragging as he walks. Not a superficial injury, the smell of blood pungent and bitter in Zeb’s nose, the mess of it hard to see against the black fabric of the man’s under-armor, but there all the same.

“The Lieutenant send you?” one of the men wearing a TIE fighter’s uniform wants to know.

“He’s not a lieutenant anymore,” Kallus says, “but yes, he sent us.”

“Is he all right?”

“Doing better than you lot. And me,” Zeb grumbles, lifting his hand to look at the wound no longer screaming agony across his ribs. A mistake; the motion wakes up the exposed nerves, the sight of his own blood matting the fur of his hand doing him no favors. “Good thing you’re a piss-poor shot even without your helmet on.”

“Get kriffed,” one of the uninjured men says.

“We need to move,” Kallus says, before Zeb has the chance to retort, the touch of Kallus’ hand to against his own putting just the barest pressure on the wound, a kindness that helps diminish some of Zeb’s temper. Marginally. “And we’ll need to bind you for the trip. As a precaution.”

He meets no resistance, the men compliant and quiet as they’re seated and shackled, watching apprehensively as Zeb rips open the first aid kit and does what he can for the injured ‘trooper’s wound, which amounts to little more than wrapping it in gauze and positioning him so that one of his companions’ elbows keeps pressure on it, but that’s enough to earn fragile trust, a murmured _thank you_ following the backward curl of his ears as he leaves them and rejoins Kallus in the cockpit.

“Don’t need to tell you one of ‘em’s hurt pretty bad,” he tells Kallus as he settles into the copilot’s seat to bandage his own injury, keeping his voice low, “and Alpha-three doesn’t have any bacta. He ain’t gonna make it without.”

“I had the same thought, yes,” Kallus says.

“So I was thinking," Zeb says, "Alpha-three ain’t all that far from an Imperial outpost on Frelse. Raided it once a couple’a cycles ago. Could get Hera to meet us halfway and do it again, grab some’a their supplies. Just a couple’a barrels of bacta, enough to keep Alpha-three going ‘til they get their supply problems sorted out.”

Kallus’ hands freeze over the controls, his expression heavy when he turns to look at Zeb, Imperial efficiency slowly thawing into Rebel wickedness that curves his mouth into a smile crooked enough to show teeth. “Do you think our injured captive can hold out long enough for us to pull it off?”

“With anyone but Hera flying it? No,” Zeb says. “But since we’ve got her —”

Kallus opens the comms to the _Ghost._ “Captain Syndulla,” he says. “Garazeb and I have a proposition for you.”

— — —

They return to Alpha-three as heroes, Kallus and Hera delivering their captives and the bacta into the waiting hands of the proper authorities while Zeb limps down to his bunk, the thought that he could use a quick wash and some food diminished under the _need_ to lie down, his foot and injured side arguing for his attention. He’s just settled into a position that hurts little enough that he thinks he’ll maybe be able to fall asleep when the door opens and Kallus comes in, his face set in frown that Zeb can _feel,_ brushing up his body like a hand.

“There you are,” Kallus says. “I’d expected you’d go to Medical.”

Zeb closes his eyes. “Nah. They’ll have their hands full with our latest catch,” he says. “Figured I’d grab some shut-eye for a few, then go down.”

“I’ve just come from Medical,” Kallus says, “they were hardly overrun. And you’re injured.”

“Mm.” Zeb cracks open one eye. “Carry me with the Force and I’ll consider it.”

Kallus’ frown dips into a three or four on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale, his vest whispering its disapproval as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Garazeb, for all that I enjoy your sense of humor, this isn’t something you should be taking so lightly."

"Eh. I've had worse."

"That is entirely immaterial."

"And 'm tired."

The glare sinks another two notches, at least. "The injuries you’ve sustained, where not life-threatening, are serious enough that you _really_ should be taking them seriously, " Kallus says. "The long-term detriment of doing otherwise isn't —”

He cuts himself off with a sharp, curt sigh, the hard set of his jaw at odds with the quick, efficient motion of his hands as he reaches down and unbuckles his belt, shucking his trousers down his legs to bunch up around his ankles, pulling at the hem of the undergarment he wears beneath, baring his thigh. Nothing Zeb hasn’t seen before — he’s showered with the man countless times, seen him fully nude plenty there — but this feels different, more intimate somehow, Kallus’ skin pale under the sparse copper fur of his leg, doing little to conceal the scar puckering along the line of muscle.

“This is the other souvenir I’ve carried with me from Bahryn,” he says, turning so that the light catches the slick, shiny scar tissue, shadows caressing it where it’s sunken into the meat of his thigh. “I remained there several hours after your departure. After I was rescued, I opted to make my report on the skirmish at Geonosis before visiting medical for treatment, and as a result, the fracture shifted and worsened, requiring surgery to address. You’ve commented during our sparring matches that I tend to favor my leg, and you’re right, I do. Rebuilding the strength I lost while I healed took longer than I had patience to wait, and I reinjured it in my stubborn efforts to soldier through the pain. Twice. And now, it will never fully heal. It’s not as reliable as it once was, and it actively hurts from time to time. Usually when I’m on a planet with stronger gravity than I’m used to, or cold, damp weather.”

Zeb frowns. “You chose a helluva planet for us to bring Lyste to, then,” he says. “Alpha-three was _your_ pick.”

“It was, and my leg has seen to it that I’ve regretted that decision every day we’ve been here,” Kallus says. “My point, though, is that my choices were short-sighted and bull-headed, and I am regularly reminded of them, and of my hubris, because of it. I’d rather not see the same happen to you.”

Zeb’s ears flatten, a cacophonous mix of gratitude and embarrassment and awkward affection pushing on his lungs, making it hard to breathe as he pushes himself up, humor easing the tightness in his throat when Kallus gives him a suspicious look and says _what?_

“Nothing,” Zeb says. “Just — is this part’a your Force gift, or are you just naturally persuasive?”

“Negotiation is a skill I’ve worked _years_ to hone,” Kallus says. “It has nothing to do with the Force.” He lowers his heel to the floor, bending down to pull his trousers back up, the buckle of his belt jangling quietly against itself as he fastens it. “I’ll go with you to Medical,” he says, once he’s decent. “Now, if you’d like.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you think I won’t go, otherwise,” Zeb says.

“Am I wrong in my thinking?”

“Dunno. Probably not.”

“May I accompany you anyway?”

Zeb shrugs. His foot hurts, badly enough that he’ll be limping the whole way to medical, his ribs burning under the bandage he wrapped around the wound there, and that feels like a concession, but — “Yeah, if you want.”

“I do. Thank you.”

He follows Zeb out of their room and down the corridor, waiting all of a dozen steps before reaching out and pulling Zeb’s arm up over his shoulders, his arm wrapped tight around Zeb’s side, below his injury, supporting him, freeing him to keep almost all of his weight off his injured foot. Which would be embarrassing — should be, he tells himself — except that it’s not, Kallus’ strength at his side a comfort that dims only as Zeb shrugs out of the top of his jumpsuit so that the medic on duty can clean and properly dress the burned, aching wound from the blaster shot, then diminishes entirely when the medic tells him to lie back and unwraps the bandages from Zeb’s foot, fresh blood marring the gauze gone filthy from Zeb’s day, the sharp, shrieking pain he’d been enduring rising in pitch and volume as the medic cleans the site and applies a freezing cold layer of bacta, the sting of it arcing up every nerve in Zeb’s leg, twisting his stomach around his spine.

“Kara _bast,”_ he growls through gritted teeth, leaning back into the raised bed, the room spinning around him as he does, the feel of Kallus’ hand wrapping around his wrist giving him an anchor to distract him from the pain in his foot, Kallus’ grip strong enough to bruise, holding him down.

“Be still,” Kallus tells him when he cracks open one of his eyes to look at the man, his other hand firm on Zeb’s chest, keeping him from sitting up to see _what_ the medic’s doing that hurts so much. “It’s fine, but nothing you need to see.”

Zeb relents, a wobbling chuckle catching in his throat, gurgling a little in his mouth. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a keener sense’a smell than you do,” he says. “I know it’s bleeding.”

“Well, yes, that’s what happens when you go running around dodging blaster fire on fresh stitches,” Kallus tells him. “I’d be suspicious that you’d gotten a prosthetic at some point if it weren’t bleeding. That it’s not bleeding more than it is should be a surprise to us both.”

At the end of the operating bed, the medic grunts agreement, then does _something_ that sends a fresh wave of nausea up Zeb’s thigh to his stomach, Kallus’ hand moving from his wrist to his palm, giving him something to grab onto and squeeze. “Easy,” Kallus says, the hand on Zeb’s chest moving in a steady kneading pattern, soothing the tension gathered beneath it. “Nearly done.”

“How d’you know that?” Zeb says, the challenge coming out thin and stretched, desperation hanging from each syllable.

“An educated guess,” Kallus says.

He’s right, at least, the medic pulling off his gloves and dressing the wound in fresh bandages less than a minute after Kallus has spoken, his expression tired, the hours he’s spent on shift weighing the flesh under his eyes as he secures the bandage and stands. “I’ve done the best I can for you, but the aggravation of the wound is significant and will slow your recovery. I recommend twelve standard hours of no pressure on the foot before it will be able to withstand normal use. Twenty _at least_ for strenuous use. Twenty-four would be preferable, with a check-up to see how you’re progressing, after. And a second bacta treatment for the blaster wound, as well, though at this point, nothing we do will prevent it from scarring.” He looks at Kallus. “Are you his commanding officer?”

Kallus’ eyebrows lift all the way into his hair, making Zeb laugh out loud, the endorphins flooding his system making him feel loose and loopy, maybe a little bit drunk. Kallus, to his credit, keeps his cool considerably better. “I am not,” he says while Zeb laughs.

“Well, whoever is should order him to keep off his foot,” the medic says.

“I agree,” Kallus says. “I’ll pass word along.”

The medic thanks him, Zeb chuckling still as Kallus helps him down from the bed, propping him up once again as they make their way out of medical, their bodies arguing against one another as Zeb does his best to turn left, towards the mess hall, while Kallus tries to steer him to the right.

“To your bunk to rest,” Kallus says when Zeb demands to know where he’s trying to go. “You heard the medic. You need to —”

“I need a _drink,_ is what I need,” Zeb tells him.

“Alcohol is not recommended,” the medic calls after him, his voice tired.

“Bed,” Kallus says. “Please.”

Zeb relents, maybe pouting a little as he and Kallus return to their room, the bacta doing its magic on his foot well enough that it doesn’t hurt so much anymore, doesn’t feel like it needs to be pampered, but he knows from experience that it’s a fragile reprieve, the pain relief from the bacta fickle, liable to betray him if he doesn’t behave himself. So he stretches out on his bunk and glares at the low ceiling, surprised when Kallus settles onto his own bunk, shrugging out of his vest as he does.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Could go check on Lyste, let him know we got his men out safe. If you want.”

A sigh answers him. “Would you rather I leave you alone?”

“Nah. Just don’t want you to be trapped in here, just ‘cause’a me.”

“I’m not. And besides that, Jarrus said he’d speak with Lyste, let him know we successfully retrieved his companions.”

“Kanan,” Zeb corrects.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can call him ‘Kanan,’” Zeb says. “Nobody calls him by his family’s name.”

Kallus answers him with a frown he’s pulled down over the discomfort Zeb can still see plainly on his face. “He calls me by my surname,” he says. “That’s — you _all_ call me by my surname.”

“Well yeah, but — okay, yeah, that’s weird, now that you point it out,” Zeb says. “You don’t call _me_ by my family name, though ”

“Would you rather I did?”

“Don’t think I’d answer to it, to be honest,” Zeb says. “D’you want me to call you Alexsandr?”

Kallus’ — _Alexsandr’s_ — face goes red, obscuring his spots, and he looks away, treating the edge of Zeb’s mattress to a genuinely fierce glare, tipping the far end of the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. “It ... may take some getting used to,” he says, “but I wouldn’t mind, no. If you’d like.”

“All right. _Alexsandr,”_ Zeb says, trying it out. It fits him, he decides. Better than _Kallus_ ever did. “Gonna have a long day tomorrow, talking to Lyste’s guys.”

“We will, yes, but I doubt it will be as bad as you may have in mind,” Kal— _Alexsandr_ — says. “The likelihood that their stories will be similar is high, so once we’ve heard one, we’ll be hearing variations on its themes, and that should speed the proceedings along, as well as provide the chance to spot any conflicting details.”

“Think they might have a spy among ‘em or something?” Zeb says.

“I don’t, no. But just in case.”

“Yeah.” Zeb reaches down to rub at a twinge in his calf muscle, wincing when the motion pulls wrong at the wound across his ribs, the burn of it spreading up under his arm, making his fur prickle. _“Karabast.”_

Alexsandr is on his feet and at Zeb’s side in a heartbeat, his hands outstretched but not touching, his eyes mapping patterns of worry across Zeb’s body. “What’s wrong.”

“Cramp in my leg,” Zeb says. “And I forgot I got shot today, rubbed at it wrong. Heh. If you can believe I’d forget _that.”_

“I can,” Alexsandr says. He lifts Zeb’s leg, moving steadily but carefully, raising it just enough to slip under it and sit, settling Zeb’s calf across his thighs, pressing the meat of his thumbs into the largest muscle, his fingers hooked like dulled claws around Zeb’s shin. “Where is the cramp?”

“Little higher’n that,” Zeb says. “Just above the — _yeah,_ there, that’s — that’s got it. _Ah.”_

He leans back, intent on keeping himself upright on his elbows, but the blaster shot across his ribs objects to that, too, sending him backwards in a barely contained sprawl, his pillow saving him from looking a complete fool, his leg sending a confusing mix of pain and relief up his thigh into his belly, K— _Alexsandr’s_ hands kneading steadily, coaxing out every inch of tension, warming the muscle beneath.

“You’re good a’that,” Zeb tells the ceiling after he’s lain in the swirling gratification of being rubbed long enough to feel drunk on it, the warm haze of relief slowing his tongue in his mouth.

“You’ve been walking strangely because of your injury,” Alexsandr says. “It’s small wonder your muscles are spasming as a result.”

“Yeah. Back ain’t doing much better.”

Alexsandr’s hands hesitate, just for a breath, before he goes back to kneading. “I could work on your back as well,” he says, “if you’d like.”

Zeb lifts his head from the pillow, the muscles in his neck and shoulders objecting immediately and strenuously to the motion, but it’s worth it for the few seconds he gets of Kallus — _Alexsandr,_ gods be damned — looking at him sidelong, as uncertain as he was during their first sparring match, his shoulders hunched a little where he’s not abandoned Zeb’s woebegotten leg, his thumbs and fingers doing frankly magical things to the tension in Zeb’s calf.

“Yeah,” Zeb says, letting his head drop back down to his pillow. “I would. But only after that leg’s stopped threatening to defect from the rest’a me.”

He doesn’t have to lift his head to see the look of relief on Alexsandr’s face, the sound of the man chuckling softly as he rubs the muscle under his hands playing perfect counterpoint to his expression, his touch so soothing and hypnotic that Zeb drops into a warm, cradling sleep before his back’s gotten its turn, no memory of Kallus slipping from his bed remaining when he wakes in the morning.

He’s grateful for the sleep he’s gotten, both the long hours and the deep, uninterrupted quality, by the time late afternoon has rolled around the day following, Alexsandr’s hypothesis that their latest batch of defectors would each sing variations on the same theme surrounding their choice to leave the Empire wrong, _dead_ wrong, the hours stretching long across the questioning Kanan insists on conducting with each of them. Caf doesn’t help Zeb like it helps humans, and there isn’t enough of it in the wide galaxy to perk him up after they’ve finished talking with their third ex-stormtrooper, besides, his ears drooping and foot throbbing, the hard durasteel chair he’s sitting in boasting about as much nervous sensation as his ass, both numbed cold when he stands and stretches.

 _“Please_ tell me we’re grilling the other two tomorrow,” he says when Kanan and Alexsandr stay where they are, both of them clearly trying to act like they’re not worn down to nothing, doing a frustratingly good job of it. “Or at least the one who just got out’a the bacta tanks. _Please.”_

Kanan turns towards him, the milkiness of his pupils eerily pale in contrast to the redness surrounding them, a souvenir of their long day. “I think that would be a kindness to us to start fresh tomorrow. _And_ to them,” he says.

“Thank the _gods,”_ Zeb grumbles. “I’m getting a drink after this, and you two’re joining me.”

Kanan stands, feeling for his mask, which Alexsandr nudges into his fingers’ path with little more than a glance that neither Zeb nor Kanan misses, if the way Kanan’s face softens into the barest suggestion of a smile is any indication. “Much as I would like that, I need to record what we heard from our newest additions, and then I’ll need to rest,” he says.

“Yeah, all right, fair enough,” Zeb says. “What about you?”

“I’ll go with you,” Alexsandr says, “but you’ll want to stop by Medical first to —”

“No,” Zeb says, “I am _not_ going anywhere _near_ Medical. Bad stuff happens to me there. I’m going straight to the public house and buying a drink and there’s not a sentient on this planet that’s gonna _stop me.”_

Kanan slips his mask on, nudging Alexsandr’s arm on his way to the door. “I think there might be one who could,” he says as he passes Zeb, but he doesn’t stick around long enough for Zeb to demand to know what _that’s_ supposed to mean, the way Alexsandr’s ears warm pink under the harsh overhead lights telling him clearly enough that he’s not alone in his interpretation, at least.

Whiskey helps immensely, the burn of it playing off the carafe of cool water Alexsandr orders to go along with it, the hum of conversation around them banal and ignorable, Zeb’s ears happy to let the sound wash over them without processing a word of it, the wet air warmed by the fire crackling at the far end of the pub, mixing the smell of woodsmoke with the smoky finish of the whiskey, Ka— _karabast_ — Alexsandr’s scent just barely discernible underneath. And the way Alexsandr sighs around his first mouthful of whiskey is nice, too. More than.

“Should’a made a toast first, I guess,” he says when Alexsandr catches him staring and says _what._ “Could now. ‘Cept I can’t think’a one.”

The corner of Alexsandr’s mouth quirks, bunching his fur up into itself. “To a cause worth supporting,” he says, “even when viewed so very differently through Imperial eyes.”

Zeb lifts his eyebrows and his glass, knocking it gently against Alexsandr’s. “That’s a good one,” he says. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Alexsandr says, drinking.

“Never would’a thought you’d be the start’a so many defections from the Empire, back when you were on the other side’a things,” Zeb says after a minute, the whiskey merrily singing through his veins, loosening his grip on his inhibitions, his tongue loose and comfortable in his mouth. “You're starting to look like a revolutionary, the way things’re going.”

Alexsandr snorts. “Hardly. You’re just saying that because Lyste left as a result of investigating my motives, and his squadron came along for the ride. _Without_ knowledge of me or my defection.”

“One of ‘em knew you by name, at least,” Zeb points out. “One’a the TIE pilots.”

“I assume he heard it from Lyste,” Alexsandr says, “though I’m poor with names and faces. I may have served with him and forgotten.”

“Aw, you’ll break his heart if you did,” Zeb says, pleased when Alexsandr chuckles softly and reaches for the water, drinking a glassful in one go before sliding his glass across the table for Zeb to refill with whiskey.

“One of the downsides of the rebellion being so spread out across the galaxy is a lack of visibility,” he says as he sips his drink. “It’s been the rebellion’s salvation, of course, making it an impossible target to eliminate, but —” He sighs and tips his head back against the back of his chair. “The Empire is bleeding defectors almost as fast as they’re recruiting and training new soldiers. The tighter they clasp their fist, the more systems and planets and peoples slip through their fingers.”

Zeb’s ears perk up. “That so,” he says.

“Mm. Hundreds a year, rumored. Usually the men left behind for dead after a battle, but some slipping away after they’ve been sent on one suicide mission too many, or sent out to do battle that’s called off into retreat the minute the commanding officer’s pride is threatened, or he’s killed by the rebel that all his fancy, well-trained soldiers couldn’t stop.” A shrug. “Common among ‘troopers and very junior officers. Less so among those at the ranks Lyste and I held. And pilots. I was grateful that you suggested speaking with the pilots after we’ve had some rest. We’ll need to be sharp, with them.”

“Well, with one of ‘em,” Zeb corrects. “That other one — poor bastard. Glad he lived.”

Alexsandr hums agreement, the sound warping in the contours of his glass. “Strange, isn’t it? You saying that about a TIE pilot.”

“Ain’t a TIE pilot anymore, ‘s long as he’s not a spy or something,” Zeb says. “Kanan was talking with Ezra about it once, after we’d picked up a couple’a guys looking to join up on our side. How’d he put it — ‘a Rebel with fifteen years’ TIE flying experience,’ think it was.”

“Oh, I rather like that,” Kallus — oh for the _love_ of — _Alexsandr_ says.

“Know what that’d make you?” Zeb says.

“Hm?”

“Best bastard to ever have next to me in a fight.”

Alexsandr laughs quietly and takes a generous sip from his glass. “Your words or Kanan’s?”

“All mine.”

“Ah. Well, I rather like that, too.”

Zeb grins and finishes his drink.

He’s in the perfect state of numb and relaxed by the time they’ve finished off the bottle between them, his mouth cool from the water Alexsandr’s poured for him and his body heavy with what promises to be a damned good night’s sleep when he stands and stretches, the way his fur pulls under his jumpsuit telling him he really _needs_ to take a shower, to wash off the day he’s had, for all that he’s not moved around, save for walking to Security first thing in the morning and to the pub after. He says as much to Alexsandr, who nods and says _I was thinking the same, just now._

“I need to make a detour on the way, though,” he says as he and Zeb leave the pub together. “Won’t take me long.”

“Getting in a late-night kiss with Lieutenant Lyste before you clean up, eh?”

“I am not.”

Which isn’t nearly the level of response Zeb’s expecting — too much time spent around Ezra’s fluster and temper, he thinks as he walks alone to the showers — but has him chuckling to himself all the same, the mental image of how Lyste might react to Kallus kissing him amplified by the liquor in his system. And true to his word, Alexsandr joins him in the showers after only a few minutes, long enough that Zeb probably _should_ have been finished by the time he arrives, but the hot water feels unbearably good on his back and buttocks, washing away all of the tension and uncertainty of the past two days, drawing sensation up from the numbness of the whiskey lining his skin. Alexsandr’s feelings on the matter aren’t much different from Zeb’s own, if the way he exhales as he steps into the water is any indication, tipping his head back to let the water wash over his face, reaching up to run his hands down the back of his head to his neck, his skin flushing pink around the trails of water flowing over it, the steam rising around him thick enough to obscure the spots sprinkled across his chest and belly, the fur grown thick from his chest to his groin.

Zeb compels himself from the water only when Alexsandr does, yawning behind his hand as he dries himself and dresses, the feel of clean clothes against clean fur highlighting for him _just_ how filthy he’d been, how badly he’d needed a shower, despite the long hours of the day, the heaviness where the buzz of the alcohol has bled out into lethargy leaving him eager to crawl into bed and not exist for five or six hours, at least.

Alexsandr joining him on his bunk is _not_ part of that particular goal, but that’s what he gets all the same, the other man sitting at the foot of his bed the minute Zeb’s lain down, producing from the pocket of his vest a roll of clean bandages and a single-use tube of ointment, patting his thighs when Zeb looks at him in confusion, then reaching over and pulling Zeb’s injured foot into his lap when Zeb doesn’t cotton on quickly enough.

“You’d be aghast if any of your squadron were so cavalier in their care of an injury,” he says, unwrapping the old bandages with hands far steadier than Zeb’s feel, despite the alcohol in his system. “And wet bandaging will do more harm than good, so you _clearly_ need —” He stops, the words drying up in his mouth as he takes in the sorry state of Zeb’s foot, his fur shaved off in uneven patches, the skin beneath pale, pathetic. “Oh.”

 _“What,”_ Zeb grumbles.

“Nothing,” Alexsandr says, a little too quickly, pulling off the last of the bandages and dropping them to the floor, his fingers warm and cautious as he touches, lifting Zeb’s foot up enough to get a better look at his injury.

“It’ll grow back in a couple’a weeks,” Zeb says when Alexsandr’s fingers move away from the skin still sensitive where it’s healing, trailing across his bared skin, questing through the fuzz left behind from the shaver, his touch curious, careful.

“I’m sure it will,” he says.

“And you can stop _staring_ at it now.”

Alexsandr looks up, finally, his lips pursed around the mirth he’s doing a shit job of keeping behind his teeth, his eyes dancing with it. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Alexsandr says. He’s still touching, his hand wrapped gently around the side of Zeb’s foot, well enough away from the injury but close enough that the fur was likely so matted with blood when the medic got to him that it got shaved, too, the confusion understandable, if regrettable. “Does it feel cold? I imagine it’s not dissimilar from being barefoot, for humans.”

“Yeah, a bit,” Zeb says, “and this sodden little planet’s not doing it any favors.”

“I’m sure it isn’t, no.” Alexsandr looks once more at the wound, then wraps both hands around Zeb's foot, his palms covering the shaved skin, warm and gentle, his lack of fur on his hands allowing the heat of his body to radiate out, as comforting as raw starshine, sending a shiver up Zeb's leg. "Is that all right?"

"More than," Zeb says. "Warm. Feels good."

"Mm." Alexsandr moves his hands a little, gently kneading Zeb’s foot, keeping his skin pressed close enough that the warmth gathers and stays, the comfort of it like the memory of the hot water from the shower, soothing and intoxicating. “You always seemed so invincible, whenever you and I would fight,” he says after a quiet moment, one of his thumbs trailing up, rubbing at the join of toe to foot. “It’s strange, now. Seeing you hurt.”

“Happens more’n you might know,” Zeb says. “I’m good at dealing with it ‘til we’re out’a danger.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Alexsandr says. He gives Zeb’s foot a gentle squeeze, then releases it, the damp air quick to rush in and take its place, even before he's got it medicated and wrapped once again, the mattress shaking a little as he stands and crosses the two steps to his own bunk, sighing the weariness of the day as he pulls back the blankets and lies down. “Goodnight, Garazeb.”

“‘Night, Alexsandr.”

Alexsandr makes a soft sound in his throat, not quite rolling over quickly enough for Zeb to miss the pleased look on his face, the sound of his given name hanging between them as Zeb switches out the lights, the meteorite’s glow filling the room as he slips into sleep.

_Author’s ruminations_  
They’re just best buddies, really. Best buddies who drink together and shower together and give each other foot rubs and—

(I’m as big a fan of slow burn as the next guy, but y’all, I’ve got some of their very-much-NOT-just-friends stuff written and each chapter I tell myself “this’s the one!” and then it isn’t and _it’s actually kind of starting to bother me but not enough to do anything about it_ and it’s weird because I’m ... y’know ... the one writing this? But not really. I’m just along for the ride.)

A few thoughts I wanted to share from elsewhere in the story:

\- When Kanan leaves the guys to drink without him, he’s going back to Hera for some adult-rated cuddling, don’t be confused. #ihavespoken

\- I’m really not sure what’s up with me and writing Kallus giving lectures/speeches, but that seems to Be A Thing in the last like ... every chapter. He’s a thoughtful guy, got a lot on his mind.

\- Oh, and the bit about Kallus keeping Zeb company while he’s getting his foot fixed up? That comes from a real-life experience: a friend of mine ripped open her leg on a sharp rock one day while we were out hiking, and I took her to an Urgent Care to get stitches, spent the entire time they were sewing her up talking to her and keeping her from fainting, drove her home, got her safely delivered into her partner’s arms, came home myself ... and promptly passed out in my own living room. I kept it together when it mattered, so that counts for something, right? (Kallus has a stronger stomach for blood than I do, apparently.)

Enough out of me. I hope you’re still liking the story. For all my whinging, I know I am. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Zeb takes a leap of faith.
> 
> Oh, and with special thanks to sempaiko for the art that inspired a bit towards the end. I could just curl up in your art style and stay there forever, true story.

**Brute Force**

_part vi_

They leave Alpha-three after what feels like months, for all that the calendar on the _Ghost_ reports they’ve been there just over a week, Zeb’s foot mostly healed but tender, still, the blastershot wound on his chest no longer hurting even when he pokes at it, though it _is_ bare, scar tissue inhibiting regrowth of his fur. Small price to pay for coming away from Alpha-three whole, he muses as he takes second watch with Alexsandr on the next little planet they call _home,_ the cool evening air ruffling his fur as they walk, pleasant complement to the simple pleasure of walking at Alexsandr’s side, and without pain.

 _Less_ pleasant are their daytime accommodations, cramped and outdated, the barracks little more than a storage warehouse rowed with rickety bunkbeds, the _actual_ storage area a disorganized mess, which means Zeb’s stuck on busy-work detail with Ezra during the day, Alexsandr’s days spent with Lyste and his men, doing whatever it is spies do in the dark cellar they’ve optimistically labeled _Intelligence Operations._ It’s still a cellar, even after they’ve decked it out with a map glass and a holotable, the ceiling low enough that Alexsandr’s at risk of bumping his head when he moves too close to the walls, the ceiling sloping even lower there, Zeb’s back curved at an uncomfortable angle when he comes looking for him, Alexsandr’s band of merry defectors all looking at him curiously when Alexsandr spots him and crosses the room to say hi.

“Thought maybe you’d want to come out and play for a bit,” Zeb says, his ears brushing the ceiling when he tries to straighten a little to appease a twinge in his back. “Got an hour or so before it gets dark. Days’re a lot shorter here than on Lothal.”

“Appealing though that sounds, you’re hardly in any condition to be sparring,” Alexsandr says, his gaze moving to the patch sewn onto Zeb’s jumpsuit, mending the rip where he got shot. “I don't want to reinjure you.”

“Won’t be sparring with me, either,” Zeb says, grinning. “Ezra’s _apparently_ too proud to ask you to come make a fool out’a him again, but he’s been dropping hints like he’s shedding and Kanan’s finally at his wits’ end with it. You’ll be doing us all a favor if you come put the kid in his place.”

Alexsandr’s eyebrows lift, taking some of the weariness of his day with them. “Well then,” he says. “You should have said. Lyste, you’ll take over here?”

“Yes, sir,” Lyste says, actually snapping to attention and saluting, of all things. Alexsandr sighs.

“None of that,” he says. _“Please.”_

He has a bit of a bounce in his step, though, as he and Zeb walk together down to the spot Kanan and Ezra have unofficially declared _theirs_ for sparring, a flat clearing thickly carpeted with local plantlife ringed by saplings, the late afternoon starshine dappling the ground through the leaves, giving the illusion of movement, like the surface of a fretful lake. Alexsandr greets Kanan warmly, clasping forearms with him, then circles the field a bit, assessing it, cataloguing its features, his sigh as he shrugs out of his vest and sweater the same as the satisfied sigh he hefts whenever he’s joined Zeb for a drink.

“How would you like to proceed?” he says — to Ezra, Zeb notices, not Kanan, Ezra’s surprise in response making him look like the kid he is, adorably caught off-guard. “Regular hand-to-hand combat, or would you like to introduce use of the Force into our exercises?”

“Uh. I dunno,” Ezra says, looking to Kanan, then back to Alexsandr when Kanan does little more than smile and cross his arms over his chest. “Regular hand-to-hand to start with, I guess. Do you need to warm up?”

“I don’t, but I appreciate the consideration,” Alexsandr says. He drops into a low, cautious stance, raising his hands, his fingers loose. “At your leisure.”

Ezra, to his (or, more accurately, Kanan’s) credit, doesn’t launch himself into the fight straight away. He moves around Alexsandr’s strike range, watching, considering. Feints twice before actually attacking, and with any other opponent it likely would have served him well, but with Alexsandr, skilled as he is and wound tight around the weeks he and Zeb haven’t sparred, he has little chance for victory, Alexsandr claiming the first match easily, then the second, Ezra out of breath and frustrated by the time he’s conceding the third.

“How’d we ever get away from you?” he complains when Alexsandr pulls him to his feet after knocking him to the ground and holding him there for all of two seconds, just long enough to get his point across. “You’re impossible to beat.”

“Hardly,” Alexsandr says, “and I was rarely going up against only one of you at a time, and even on _those_ occasions, rarely in such an open space. _And_ you aren’t trying to kill me anymore.”

“I might change my mind about that,” Ezra grumbles. Alexsandr breathes amusement, pushing his hair from his eyes.

“Would you care to hear my insights, or would you like to try again?”

“Again,” Ezra says. “I’ll figure it out on my own.”

He doesn’t, doesn’t even come _close,_ out of breath and streaked with grass-stains and frustrated to the point that Zeb sort of expects him to burst into tears by the time Kanan steps in and says _that’s enough for today,_ one of his hands squeezing Ezra’s shoulder, tightly enough that Ezra stays where he is, doesn’t go storming off. “We’re going to meditate for a bit, if you’d like to join us,” he says to Alexsandr.

“Thank you,” Alexsandr says, “but —”

“No, you gotta,” Ezra says, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his lower lip like it’s a landing port, easily the biggest pout he’s ever pulled in Zeb’s presence. “If I have to, so do you. He makes me do it after every sparring session.”

Alexsandr blinks at him. “Oh,” he says. “I hadn’t realized.”

 _“Every_ sparring session,” Ezra repeats.

“Well, in that case, Garazeb and I would be honored to join you,” Alexsandr says.

Zeb folds his ears back. “Now wait just a minute —”

“Please, show us how this is done.”

Which means Zeb’s sitting on the ground in the clearing, the dampness of the terrain beneath the soft grasses slow-seeping into his jumpsuit, his legs folded before him and hands on his knees, mirroring the pose of his companions. It’s not awful, once he’s gotten his tailbone situated over a soft patch of dirt, his back settled into alignment. Kind of nice, really, the pressure taken off his healing foot, the pose stretching some of the muscles he’s upset by walking funny to accommodate his injuries as they’ve healed, the gentle breeze bringing in the cool of evening winding through his fur, carrying the familiar mix of Kanan’s, Ezra’s, and Alexsandr’s scents to his nose, all three of them present and close, soothing his innate discomfort with closing his eyes when he's out in the open, exposed.

“Stretch out along your heartbeat,” Kanan says. “Let it show you where you want to go. Focus on that destination. Touch, but don’t push.”

A pretty way to say _slow your breathing and your heart-rate will slow as well,_ Zeb’s pretty sure, but it’s sound advice, helps him ease out some of the tension he felt, watching Ezra and Alexsandr spar, his muscles tensing in jealous desire, eager to dive into the thick of it.

“Sense the lifeforms around you. Ours, the plants', the planet’s. Listen to them, see what they might have to say,” Kanan says.

The leaves rustle lazily overhead, their edges just starting to curl and dry with age, giving the breeze voice, louder than the shift of the grasses below, their growth stunted by the trees arcing over them, stealing from them the limited hours of starshine given to the planet’s surface. In the distance, too far to be a threat, Zeb’s ears pick up the sound of some creature moving, circling their clearing. Probably trying to decide if they’re a danger to it.

“Center the motion of the Force into the movement of your breathing. Become more than you are, as you’re able.”

Zeb keeps his eyes closed, rolling Kanan’s words over in his mind, his imagination thumbing through what that might feel like, becoming the universe itself, or whatever it is he means by it. It strikes him as odd, in that moment, that the Force should be used for throwing and pinning opponents in battle, for crafting weapons to be used in war, when it is, apparently, so much _bigger,_ so much more than merely —

“Dear _gods,”_ Alexsandr shouts, his voice cracking against the silence crystallized around them, his balance off as he leaps to his feet, stumbling a little, his eyes wild. “What in the name of —”

“The hell?” Ezra’s saying, sprawled backwards where Alexsandr’s outburst startled him into an aborted crab-walk, not the most graceful display of fight-or-flight Zeb’s ever seen, but he’s too busy climbing to his feet as well, reaching out for Alexsandr more on instinct than conscious thought, to care.

“I — I saw something,” Alexsandr says, but he’s looking at Kanan as he says it. “A place — I was — what in the _name_ of —”

“A vision, it sounds like,” Kanan says, calm but frowning. “Interesting. What did you see?”

“I’m not sure. A battle that seemed both underground and suspended in the air. There was a - a _creature,_ I’m not sure its origin, and it —” He shakes his head. “How can I reclaim the vision? It was too quick, and unexpected. I’m sure I’ve missed important details.”

Kanan chuckles softly, reaching out and putting his hand to Alexsandr’s shoulder. “If only they worked that way,” he says. “Sit. Reach out again. Try not to hope that you’ll see the vision again, or any vision. That, I’ve found, is the best way to _not_ see what you’re hoping to see.”

Alexsandr doesn’t respond, casting a look in Zeb’s direction before sitting once again, his brow offering the Force a seven or eight on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale as he closes his eyes and draws a long, steadying breath, his posture tense, wary. As alert as ever he is in battle, as on-edge as he is when he dreams.

He’s in a mood as they walk back to their accommodations together, quiet but unsettled, not grumpy as such — he’s mildly entertaining when he’s grumpy, like a loth-cat swatting at Ezra for trying to pet it while it naps — but distant. Folded into himself so fully that he startles a little when Zeb touches him on the arm after supper to get his attention, recoiling for an instant before returning to where he was, the curve of Zeb’s claw touching his arm.

“I apologize,” he says. “I was lost in thought.”

“Didn’t miss much. Was gonna ask if you wanted to take first watch with me.”

Alexsandr frowns. “I thought Sabine and Ezra were on first watch.”

“That’s what the list says, but _somebody_ put Ezra through his paces earlier today,” Zeb says, jerking his head in Ezra’s direction, the kid slumped over the table he’s seated at, his cheek pressed to its surface, moving only as much as he needs to blow on one of the seeds from his supper, making it roll back and forth across the tabletop. “I’m thinking he’ll be more effective if he’s got a shift’s worth’a sleep to go on. And you don’t look like you’re gonna have a great night’s sleep if you clock out right now, besides.”

Alexsandr lifts an eyebrow at him. “Since when are _you_ so perceptive?”

“Since always,” Zeb says, grateful when Alexsandr takes the lie in stride and doesn’t challenge it. “Shall I let him know?”

“Yes, I think that would be for the best,” Alexsandr says. “I’m going to bring a thermos of caf along. Would you like one?”

“Nah, thanks. Doesn’t do anything for lasat, really.”

“I’m sorry for you,” Alexsandr says. “I’m not sure how I’d function without it.”

Zeb suspects he’d function just fine, but he keeps that to himself, the look of starry-eyed relief he gets from Ezra upon telling him he gets to go to bed, Sabine thanking him with her usual sincerity and fervor, putting him in a fine mood as he shoulders his bo-rifle and leaves the compound to find Alexsandr, the man standing out under the stars with his thermos of caf, staring up at the sky, the evening breeze playing with his hair.

“You know,” he says without turning around, Zeb close enough to hear him, “I used to have vivid daydreams of skies like this, when I was a boy. Deepest black, freckled with stars. Like nothing I’d ever seen in a book or a holo.” He looks at Zeb sidelong. “I thought I had imagined it. Conjured it up like the monsters I thought were hiding under my bed at night.”

“Not much of a view on Coruscant, nah,” Zeb says. “Plenty’a monsters, though.”

“Mm.”

"Funny the stuff we think as kits," Zeb says, the silence making his fur stand on end, uncomfortable. 

"And as adults," Alexsandr says. "I'd pushed all thought of those skies from my mind until today." He looks at Zeb sidelong, then back up at the stars. "The skies I saw in my mind — they were as vivid as the images I saw this afternoon. A side effect of my abilities, and I would have never known, had it not been for Kanan. And for Ezra, insisting we join him for meditation."

"Huh," Zeb says, rolling that over his brain a few times. "That a good thing?"

A sigh from Alexsandr answers him, heavy in the night air. "I'm not yet sure," he says. "If this ability can be leveraged, if it shows a malleable future, then yes, it's a good thing. If not, if it serves only as a distraction, a source of fear and anxiety ..."

Zeb knocks his knuckles against Alexsandr’s upper arm, catching his attention. "You ain't the first to grapple with it," he says. "Could tell you stories about visions making poor Ezra lose his mind, if you like. Took Kanan _weeks_ to put the poor bastard back to rights, after."

Pity lifts Alexsandr’s eyebrows, his soft-spot for Ezra a surprise, still, but growing larger every time it surfaces. "I'll confess, I'm curious, " he says.

Zeb slings his arm around Alexsandr’s shoulders, falling into easy step with him as they start their rounds. "Well," he says, "if memory serves ..."

He tells it as best he can, as truthfully as he can, only skimming over the bits he can’t remember so well, Alexsandr quiet at his side as they walk their rounds, sipping his caf every so often. Taking it all in, as thoughtful and intelligent as ever, his quiet after Zeb’s finished his story contemplative, comfortable between them.

“I would never do Ezra the disservice of _pitying_ him,” he says, finally, “but — I suppose I empathise with him, in this case. The power of the what I saw today — I can understand why he chased that with monomaniacal focus. Especially where his family was involved, and the possibility of reuniting with them.”

Zeb hums agreement. His arm’s still slung around Alexsandr’s shoulders. Feels good there. “Kanan did, too,” he says. “He doesn’t talk about his past much, not unless you know what to ask of him, but I’m guessing he’d had the same sort’a thing happen to him before. ‘Cause he was so patient with the kid.”

“He’s a good man, Kanan Jarrus.”

“That he is.”

Alexsandr takes a long drink of caf and reaches up with his free hand, touching where Zeb’s hand is hanging over his upper arm. “He wanted badly to make me feel better about today’s events,” he says. “To reassure me, I suppose.”

“How’d that work out for him?”

Alexsandr turns just enough to look at Zeb sidelong, the hair at the nape of his neck brushing against Zeb’s arm as he does. “From your tone, I’m guessing you already know.”

“Kanan’s good at a lot’a things. Making others feel better ... not one’a those things.”

“Indeed. But —” Alexsandr stops and takes a step back, Zeb’s arm slipping from his shoulders as he does, his jaw set in a hard line, brows furrowed over his eyes. Not his usual frown, no clouds gathering for one of his famed glares. His throat working as he swallows. “He advised me to, in his words, ‘leverage the experience as best I could, and let it guide the expression of the truth.’ Which was an uncharacteristically roundabout way for him to say I should tell you that I love you, and that you are deeply important to me, as a friend, and as more, if you’ll have me.”

Zeb blinks at him. “How’s that, now?”

“What I saw today made me realize that —”

“Nah, not that. You telling me you love me, that’s what I wanted to hear again.”

Alexsandr closes his mouth, exhaling on a long sigh, then reaches up and _touches,_ threading his fingers carefully through the long hairs at the line of Zeb’s jaw, then lower, tracing the curve of muscle down Zeb’s chest, stepping in and pressing himself to Zeb’s body when Zeb reaches for him, his bodyheat slow to come through the layers of his clothing, the warmth of him where he rests his cheek against Zeb’s shoulder, his forehead pressed close to the curve of Zeb’s neck, striking in contrast. As warm as the meteorite on Bahryn, the steady tide of his breath lifting and squeezing his chest anchoring the unbearable lightness swelling in Zeb’s.

“I love you,” he says again. "And I have done for quite some time, now."

“Wondered if that might be the shape'a things,” Zeb says around the feeling tightening its fingers around his throat, squeezing where Alexsandr shifts, just the smallest degree, his forehead pressing against Zeb’s pulse-point, no doubt feeling the elevated tattoo of his heart-rate. “Feel the same for you, too, ‘case that ain’t obvious.”

The hand at his side flexes, the pad of Alexsandr’s thumb worrying the scar line where Zeb was shot, difference in texture obvious even through the fabric of his jumpsuit. “I thought, after Bahryn, that it was an obsession, no different from what you've suggested Lyste feels for me. Then after, you were the first — the only, for a while — one who was kind to me, who seemed to want to be around me, both working and for leisure. I thought that kindness was making me feel what I feel, thought it would fade, but ...” He moves, easing his face across Zeb's fur in what feels for all the world like a _nuzzle._ “It hasn’t.”

“Glad to hear it,” Zeb says, awkwardly. “Didn’t for me, either. Got worse, in fact. Better. _Stronger.”_ He chuckles. “Karabast, you know what I mean. It ain’t a bad thing.”

“No, it isn’t,” Alexsandr says, “not yet, anyway. But I can’t — I won’t risk you not knowing, or not hearing it from me. How I feel about you. In case that chance is taken from me.”

“Ominous,” Zeb says. He tips his head to the side, rubbing his cheek against Alexsandr’s hair, luxuriating in the scent of him. “You always make it sound like the universe’s gonna end when you tell people you love ‘em?”

“Well, as this is the first time I’ve said such, then I suppose that would make it a one hundred percent occurrence rate.”

“Y’sound like Sabine, talking like that.”

“A compliment I will gladly accept.”

Zeb chuckles, the feel of it reverberating around the warmth gathered thick behind his ribs, lifting into the scent and feel of Alexsandr pressed closed to him, tucked up under his chin. “I love you,” he says, tasting the words, sweet and warm and foreign on his tongue. “Even when you’re being all doom-and-gloom.”

“And I, you,” Alexsandr says.

“Universe ain’t gonna end because of it, is it?” Zeb says. He intends it as a joke, expects to feel Alexsandr’s answering mirth against his throat, but instead he feels Alexsandr’s face fall, his expression projected just as clearly where it’s pressed against his fur as if he were seeing it, adopting a defensive frown when Zeb pulls away to look at him, worry an unwelcome trickle winding through the warmth he’d been enjoying. “What. Don’t tell me that’s what you saw earlier. The downfall'a the universe, just 'cause you're in love.”

Alexsandr holds his gaze for a moment, then looks away. “In a manner of speaking, it was.”

“Huh,” Zeb says. “From the way you reacted to it, I knew it was pretty bad, but —”

“I wish I could tell you, decisively, what it was I saw,” Alexsandr sighs. “It was — odd. Like a dream that was as real as if it were happening, but faded as soon as it was over. Maddening, really.”

“Seems like that’s a pretty common theme with stuff related to the Force,” Zeb says.

“So it would seem.”

“Not to sound vain or anything, but — was I in it?” Zeb says, the words awkward around his fangs. “Just since you’re telling me how you feel and stuff, I thought —”

“I saw you jump to your death,” Alexsandr says, his voice flat and face still, a mask covering whatever has his pulse-point thumping at his throat, visible to Zeb’s keen eyes, even in the darkness. “We were being attacked by something terrifying, something all of us feared, and you —” He shakes his head, lifting his hand to rub at his temple. “I don’t know. I can remember the sensations, the fear, the desperation. Loss. Misery. You were near me, and then you said goodbye and leapt off the platform, and —”

He gestures, looking up at Zeb, so much raw feeling in his bright, beautiful eyes that Zeb leans in and kisses him, can’t _not_ kiss him, the sound Alexsandr makes as he kisses back so full of feeling that it makes his chest _ache_ in answer, Alexsandr’s hands coming up to cradle his jawline as they kiss, his nose pressed close to Zeb’s cheek, his breath coming warm and fast. He pulls away after only a few seconds of kissing to rub his cheek against Zeb’s instead, curling his hand around the back of Zeb’s neck. Holding him close, his grip firm, possessive.

“I spoke with Kanan about it at length,” he says after a moment, his fingers kneading fretfully at the muscles of Zeb’s neck, doing frankly miraculous things to the tension there. “He’s assured me that visions through the Force aren’t guaranteed to come true. That the future is always changing, not yet written.”

“Yeah, you seem real reassured,” Zeb says, Alexsandr’s answering breath of laughter heartbreaking, despite its warmth across his shoulder and arm. “If it helps, I’m afraid’a heights, so the chances’a me being up where I’m gonna be able to leap to my death’re pretty low.”

“You’re reckless where your family is involved,” Alexsandr says, pulling away from him and reaching for his thermos. “I’ve seen it firsthand, both as your enemy and your ally. You’ll do anything if it means protecting them from harm.”

Zeb opens his mouth to argue, but closes it on a sigh, his ears drooping. “Yeah, all right, y’got a point there,” he says, “but —”

Alexsandr takes a long drink from his thermos, his breath fogging the cool night air when he sighs after. "I'd like to think I would respect your decision and let you go," he says, "but the temptation to stop you — which I _could_ do, I think — might be more than I could resist."

Zeb leans in and steals a kiss, tasting the bitter caf still warm on Alexsandr’s lips. "We'll burn that bridge when we get to it," he says.

Alexsandr breathes a bare laugh, his mouth settling into a sad sort of smile. "That's not the way that expression goes."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. But your point is well-taken."

"Could be it won't happen," Zeb says.

"Yes," Alexsandr says. "Could be."

— — — 

Their watch stretches long, far past what the hours of their day allow without complaint, the both of them yawning and dragging by the time they’ve seen to their duties and returned to base, the rumble of the door opening arguably the best thing Zeb's heard all day.

Well. Second best, after the words _I love you_ on Alexsandr’s voice, the memory of it swelling his chest with the sort of desperate affection he hasn't felt since he was Ezra’s age, pining after his first crush. It mixes with the tiredness weighing every inch of him, has him pulling Alexsandr back to the _Ghost_ with him once they've both had a cursory shower, the way Alexsandr tugs against him, confused and exhausted, the sweetest thing he's ever seen.

"No way you're gonna have a peaceful night's sleep in what passes for barracks here," Zeb says, "and Ezra'll be out on watch, won't be around to object. Owes us for taking first watch, besides."

"You're asking me to share your bed," Alexsandr says.

"If you'd like."

Alexsandr relents. "I would, thank you," he says. "Very much."

Zeb doesn't quite rein in the grin he feels pulling at his mouth, wide enough to show his fangs, but Alexsandr doesn't seem to mind, if he even notices. He falls into step at Zeb's side on their way to the mess, then to the hangar, silent save for a yawn, waiting just outside the door to Zeb and Ezra's bunk while Zeb drags Ezra back to the land of the living.

“Your turn on the watch, kid,” he says, poking Ezra in the back.

Ezra mumbles something rude and burrows into his pillow. Zeb pokes him again.

“C’mon, we’re late back as it is,” he says, “and no amount’a beauty sleep’s gonna fix that awful face’a yours.”

Ezra whines. “Shut up, Zeb.”

 _Poke. Poke poke._ “Brought you some caf,” Zeb says.

“Don’wan'it.”

 _Poke poke poke._ “Ain’t polite, making Sabine wait for you like this.”

Ezra sits up, scowling, and looks around. His cheek’s wet where he’s drooled in his sleep, his hand clumsy as he lifts it to wipe away the mess. “What’s _he_ doing here?” he says when he notices Alexsandr standing in the doorway.

“Man’s gonna share my bed as soon as you’re out’a our hair,” Zeb says. “For _sleeping,_ before you go off in a tantrum.”

“Like I care,” Ezra grumbles, climbing down out of his bunk and pulling on his jacket. “Put a sock on the door if you’re doing stuff I don’t need to see.”

“Get out’a here and do the rounds,” Zeb says, pushing on him. “Go on.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ezra says around a yawn, pulling on his boots and clipping his lightsaber to his belt.

He takes the container of caf Alexsandr offers him then punches the man gently in the stomach on his way past, earning a comically wide-eyed look of surprise from Alexsandr in answer, his guard apparently completely lowered around the kid, Zeb answering his stunned look with a shrug and a tired chuckle, pulling back the blanket and stretching out on his side, plenty of room left on the mattress for Alexsandr to join him.

“Kid’s full’a surprises,” he says when Alexsandr’s stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, climbing into bed with the care of a man not entirely certain of his rights to take up space. “I’d say that’s a good sign from him, though.”

“Indeed. [Ezra is very perceptive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28925031),” Alexsandr says. “Moreso than I would have assumed.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

He turns away, facing the door, his back to Zeb, positioned perfectly for Zeb to curl around him, which he does, the bunk shaking a little as they shift against each other, finding comfort in their closeness, the warmth and scent of Alexsandr filling Zeb’s senses like a drug, the firm muscle of his buttocks against Zeb’s knee and the rise-and-fall of his ribs under the weight of Zeb’s arm grounding and hypnotic, a blissful comfort in the dark. It lulls him to sleep far too quickly, the light spilling in from the corridor when Ezra returns from his shift far too bright, the way Alexsandr growls and burrows into the blankets in answer the only thing soothing Zeb’s ire.

“Kriff, you two’re gross,” Ezra complains from the doorway.

 _“Ezra,”_ Sabine snaps.

“What? That’s gross,” Ezra says. “They’re supposed to be badasses, but they’re ... _snuggling.”_

“Oh no, whatever will we do,” Sabine deadpans. “Someone’s getting _snuggled._ It’s the end of the world.”

“Whatever. _You_ get them up for their shift if you like seeing them like this so much.”

Sabine sighs through her nose. “Shift change Zeb, Kallus. Time to get up,” she says.

Then she’s gone, dragging Ezra away with her, the door closing on his complaints that she’s being too rough with him, dragging him around.

Zeb chuckles, nuzzling into Alexsandr’s hair, just because he can. “What’d I tell you,” he says. “She’s the best of the lot of us.”

Alexsandr drags his arm down, fumbling a little for Zeb’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “One of,” he says. “Thank you for inviting me to sleep here. I’ve not had such unbroken rest in ... I’m not sure how long, if I’m honest.”

“Could make it a nightly thing,” Zeb says around the tight fist of feeling that lodges itself firmly at the base of his throat, “or see if Sabine wants a roommate. Pretty sure Ezra’d be more’n okay with moving out if it meant moving in with her.”

“As much as I _know_ Ezra would like that, I worry for the burden that would place on Sabine,” Alexsandr says. “Ezra hasn’t been subtle about his feelings for her, and her response thereto has been consistent and respectful. To push the boundary would —”

Zeb lifts his head just enough to nuzzle the shell of Alexsandr’s ear, resisting the impulse to lick it, to see how its smooth curve feels against his tongue. “I wasn’t being serious,” he says.

“Oh. I apologize.”

“Don’t. ‘S entertaining, seeing you with-it so soon after waking up.”

Alexsandr’s hand flexes, tightening his hold on Zeb’s fingers, just a little. “It’s skill,” he says. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

Which sounds pretty terrible to Zeb, especially when duty and responsibility compel Alexsandr from his bed and into his clothes, guilting Zeb into doing the same, yawning behind his hand as they go their separate ways.

It’s midday when an idea strikes him, hard enough that his ears leap to attention in response, catching Ezra’s notice straight away, the fact that he doesn’t voice his curiosity about the cause a blessing Zeb recognizes for what it is, saying a quick word of thanks to whatever deity might be listening for Ezra keeping his mouth shut, for once. His work’s simple enough that his mind’s free to work the idea over without any real detriment to his productivity, shaping and forming it against the arguments he can imagine Alexsandr voicing, were he to hear it, refining it to the point that he’s actually tempted to leave the rest in Ezra’s capable hands and go find Alexsandr and share it with him, rather than wait until the day’s end.

He resists, but just barely, his fur rising in excitement when Alexsandr comes looking for _him,_ hands clasped behind his back and purpose snapping his steps as he crosses the warehouse, his expression warm as he dips his chin in a nod of greeting.

“I’m here looking for Ezra,” he says once he’s reached Zeb. “He was assigned to work with you today, wasn’t he?”

Zeb’s ears drop, a tell any half-witted sentient could read and interpret correctly, but he doesn’t care, maybe even a little bit vindicated when Alexsandr’s gaze lifts to them, his brow furrowing just a little. “He’s around here somewhere,” Zeb says. “What d’you need him for?”

“Sparring practice,” Alexsandr says. “Kanan asked me to work with him again today, as I’m able and willing, both of which I am.” He gives Zeb’s ears another glance. “It’s my hope that you’ll come along.”

“Wouldn’t miss seeing you beat the kid’s ego into shape for anything,” Zeb says, “but, ah. Save some’a your energy for me, if you can. Wanted to get back into sparring with you myself today, if you're — what was it, 'willing and able'?”

Alexsandr looks down, huffing a knowing chuckle when Zeb draws his right foot back, tucking it behind the left. “As much as I’d love to —”

“Not the usual,” Zeb reassures him. “Got something else in mi— oh, hey, there’s Ezra. Oi, kid.”

Ezra looks up from the datapad he’d been scowling at. “What?”

“We’re off the clock. Kanan’s calling.”

Ezra brightens. _“Hell_ yes,” he says, unceremoniously dropping the crate he’d been carrying and trotting over. He looks at Alexsandr. “Are we sparring again?”

“If you’ll have me, yes.”

Ezra grins. “I practiced with Sabine last night while we were on watch. She showed me how to take you down.”

Alexsandr arches an eyebrow at him. “I’m _very_ curious to see what you’ve learned.”

“Yeah? Well we’ll see how you feel after I’ve won,” Ezra says.

They _don’t_ get to satisfy that particular curiosity, though for no lack of trying, Ezra’s usual fighting style butting heads with the tricks Sabine’s taught him, too new for him to use them quickly or seamlessly, giving Alexsandr plenty of opportunities to slip in and score a hit against him. Ezra’s frustration as he fails again and again and again mounts up higher and higher until Alexsandr takes pity on him and starts offering pointers of his own, to Ezra’s dismay.

“I don’t need _you_ to tell me how to beat you,” he says, rubbing at his nose with the heel of his hand.

“I’m merely repeating what I heard from Thrawn after he very quickly and thoroughly put me down,” Alexsandr says. “You can think of it as him training you instead, if you like.”

Ezra’s face twists into an ugly look of pure disgust. “That just makes me want to kick your ass even more.”

“I’ll count that as a success. Shall we go again?”

 _“Yes._ Ew, _gods.”_

He loses the next bout but claims a narrow, bare victory on the one that follows, grinning like the child he is when the third ends with a much wider margin, Alexsandr taking a knee and breathing hard, bowing his head in acknowledgement of Ezra’s precise killing blow, restrained just at the last possible second, an admirable demonstration of control.

“Very good,” Kanan says, stepping forward. “Alexsandr, thank you. That was enlightening.”

“Yeah, that was fun,” Ezra says, all beaming grin and pinked cheeks, his morale higher than Zeb’s seen it in ages. “Wanna do it again, or are you tired?”

“I’m acutely aware that I’m not as young as I used to be,” Alexsandr says, “and I’ve promised Garazeb what energy I have left this evening. We can go again tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Ezra wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, don’t say that out loud,” he says. “Last time you said that, we ended up getting a bunch of new guys and Zeb got shot and I didn’t get to spar with you for like _two weeks.”_

“Very true. Then until next time, thank you for sharing your learning with me,” Alexsandr says, clasping his fist into the palm of his other hand and bowing.

Ezra copies him, looking delighted with that, too. “Can I watch you and Zeb spar?”

Alexsandr looks over his shoulder to Zeb, who shrugs.

“Just ‘s long as you don’t get underfoot, I don’t mind,” Zeb says.

“Cool.”

“A good idea, yes,” Kanan says. “And then all of us can meditate together after.”

Ezra sags a little, clearly dismayed that he’s not dodging meditation for the day, but he doesn’t argue, tossing off a salute to Alexsandr before leaving the clearing, joining Kanan at its edge and looking at Zeb and Alexsandr expectantly.

Zeb grins at them. “Not gonna spar here,” he says. “There’s a spot to the west that’ll work better. C’mon.”

They follow him through the maze of trees and saplings, the organic ground-cover eventually giving way to broken bits of stone, the sharp outcroppings rising up from what Zeb would guess to be a fault line, their long arms stretching up into the brilliant glow of the sky, the suns just beginning their descent into nighttime.

“Been thinking about what Alexsandr said, about what he saw yesterday,” he says when he finds a good spot and stops, turning to the curious looks he’s getting from his friends. “Much as I don’t like it, he’s right about me leaping into things when my people’re in trouble, so I thought, why not practice it? Get you lot used to catching me when I go jumping headfirst into stuff without looking first.” He looks at Ezra and Kanan, then back to Alexsandr. “All of you.”

“Yeah, how much do you weigh?” Ezra wants to know.

“A lot. More’n you,” Zeb says.

“Perhaps we could start by lifting Zeb from the ground,” Kanan says, “before trying to factor in the complication of him taking a flying leap.”

“Fine by me, if you want to be boring,” Zeb says, the humor in his tone going stale instantly as he’s squeezed and lifted, Kanan’s hand outstretched, binding him as his feet leave the rocky ground, keeping him from flailing and making a fool of himself.

“You’re lighter than a _lot_ of things we’ve lifted, but less structurally sound, given that you’re organic,” Kanan decides, keeping Zeb aloft. “Balancing you when you’re moving, or trying to move, is interesting.” He sets Zeb down. “Ezra, you try.”

Ezra is considerably _less_ careful about lifting him, none of Kanan’s careful constriction translating through his grip, and he lifts him faster, yanking him up a full meter into the air, at least, then holding him there, splayed like a pinned butterfly.

“Yeah, that’s not so bad,” he decides, and the only reason Zeb doesn’t cross the distance between them to box his ears is that he doesn’t drop him, setting him down gently enough that the sensitive spot still healing on the bottom of his foot doesn’t object.

“Alexsandr?” Kanan says.

Alexsandr squares his shoulders and looks at Zeb, deathly still and serious, every inch the warrior Zeb once feared and now deeply respects, before raising his hand and curling his fingers, but rather than grasping him as Kanan did or freezing him in place as Ezra did, he cradles Zeb in his grasp, lifting him easily from the ground, Zeb’s thighs and buttocks and back and shoulders all supported, his feet and arms free to move, still, the feel of it amazing, how Zeb suspects it must feel to fly. He raises his right arm and grabs his bo-rifle from his back, just to see how that will feel, pleased when Alexsandr’s hold on him shifts, allowing him to lean forward, squaring his shoulders as he lifts his weapon and sights down its muzzle.

He’s breathless when he lowers Zeb back down to the planet’s surface, his face flush and mouth open, years of age and experience falling away as he looks to Kanan for approval, giving Zeb for just a moment a view into what he must have looked like as a boy Ezra’s age, desperate for his teachers’ praise.

Kanan’s mouth is hanging open. “That seemed to be very well done,” he says. “Unless I’ve misread it. Zeb?”

“Best’a three,” Zeb reports.

“That’s not fair,” Ezra complains. “Where’d you learn to do it better than me?”

“I practiced,” Alexsandr says, his voice low, maybe a little embarrassed. “Whenever we had no Inquisitors stationed aboard my vessel, or I knew Darth Vader was nowhere near, I’d —” He straightens, squaring his shoulders. “I wanted to know the extent of my abilities, as I understand it varies from Force-user to Force-user, so I practiced manipulating my surroundings. Quietly, so as not to attract attention or arouse suspicion of what I was doing, but —”

“Did you ever find a limit to what you could do with it?” Kanan says.

“Yes. Around three thousand kilograms is my limit, and that’s more for pushing than lifting or holding still. I’m unreliable beyond that, and the duration I can hold such a weight is significantly shorter than for, say, something of Garazeb’s mass.”

“Huh. Well, in that case ...”

And that’s how, minutes later, Zeb is perched atop one of the flatter rocks high up, his heart pounding as he waits for Kanan’s signal, poised to throw himself over the edge. He's got three Jedi — well, _two_ Jedi and one talented Force-user — all poised to catch him, three of the sentients he trusts more than anything or anyone else in the galaxy, but his heart drums its fingers against the hollow of his throat in anticipation of the fall all the same, the skin of his legs and back all cringing at the thought of the sharp gravel below, the crushing pain of promised upon impact. 

"All right, Zeb," Kanan calls up. "Whenever you're ready."

 _Never_ would fit that bill pretty well, but Zeb steels himself and takes a deep breath and charges at the empty golden sky beyond the ridge of rock, a battle cry roaring on his exhalation as he jumps, his toes brushing the air before he stops, his stomach swooping at the lack of falling, the gentle touch of Alexsandr’s Force gift wrapped around him, easing him to the ground. 

"Beautifully done," Kanan says.

"Yeah that was pretty cool," Ezra agrees. "Especially the part where Zeb looked like he was gonna cry."

"I'll give _you_ something to cry about," Zeb growls at him.

"I wonder if it would be different if you couldn't see him jumping," Kanan says before Ezra can come up with a retort. "Or if he jumped and fell from your view."

"I can think of several variations on the scenario we just tried, yes," Alexsandr says. He looks at Zeb. "Interested in trying again?"

Zeb flattens his ears. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you all secretly hated me," he says. "Fine. What's next?"

— — —

Twilight has settled across the landscape by the time they’ve run out of creative ways to throw Zeb off a cliff, his feet a little sore from the rough surface of the ledge, Alexsandr moving like his soul has left his body as they retrace their steps back to the clearing, only Ezra kicking up a fuss when Kanan says they should meditate before supper.

"I'm gonna fall asleep, Kanan," he whines, for all that he flops down obediently, his legs folded up in a butterfly pattern before him.

"I trust you have more discipline than that," Kanan says, sweet as treesap.

And to Ezra’s credit, he _does_ stay awake for Kanan’s meditation session, albeit with an unusually high amount of wiggling and fidgeting, the struggle to stay awake written all over the scrunch of his features. Alexsandr displays no such struggle, sitting straight and still and focused, only the way he leans into Zeb as they walk back after betraying his weariness, his hand only half-covering his yawn as he showers, the strain of the day curving his shoulders as he dries and dresses.

“I think I’ll sleep well enough in my own bunk tonight,” he says when they reach the junction where one corridor will take them to the hangar, the other to the barracks. He bumps the back of his wrist against Zeb’s forearm as he speaks, an intentional brush, Zeb suspects, though it’s often difficult to tell, Alexsandr’s tendency to be subtle maddening more often than not.

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. Goodnight, Garazeb. And thank you, for today.”

Zeb doesn’t kiss him, but he considers it, his mouth tingling with the memory of kissing him, feeling him sigh in contentment. “G’night,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

_Author’s ruminations_

Y’all I rewatched the final episode of _Rebels_ (again) a day or so before I finished up the previous chapter of this story, and _holy shit_ Kallus’ “Zeb _don’t”_ when Zeb goes leaping down to engage with Rukh — my heart wasn’t _ready,_ lord above, this pairing. _This pairing._ I just. I can’t.

Also, in case it isn’t _glaringly_ obvious, Sabine is my favorite, from the top of her ever-changing-color head down to her kickass feet. I have a swirling headcanon about her, but ... one story at a time.

... except for the side-story I’m going to be posting up shortly that accompanies this one, written from Kallus’ point of view. I wrote it back on 1 January (today is 17 January, for the record) and have been so eager to post it up since. I’m pleased to have the chance now.

Quick edit, now that I’m working on chapter 7 — update might be a while. I’ve scribbled on a few different storylines and nothing’s geling. What must it be like to have stories planned in advance. A joy I will never know.

Some things have happened in my personal life between the posting of last chapter and the writing of this one, and having this world to hide in when my own is too painful has been a blessing for which I am deeply, sincerely grateful. Please know that, even though I don’t know you in person, I love you, and I’m grateful that we get to share this space of light and contentment together.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one that covers a _lot_ of ground in canon.
> 
> I _hate_ writing canon-concurrent fiction. :(

Their days ebb and flow into a pattern of normalcy, their allies continuing to quietly shift responsibility away from Phoenix Squadron while their newly defected comrades settle in, an expected strategy, and welcome, at that, the monotony that results comfortable as a warm bed. It offers a glimpse of what life might be like if the war were to end, Zeb thinks as he sits between Ezra and Alexsandr for meditation, breathing deeply of the nighttime air, his body thrumming with the electric satisfaction of a good sparring session, his foot finally healed well enough that Alexsandr will spar with him again. A tantalizing taste of peace, welcome as it drips like rainwater from his thoughts.

“You guys on first watch again tonight?” Ezra says around a yawn, once they’ve finished their meditations and risen, walking back through the settling darkness to base.

“That’s the plan,” Zeb says.

“Good. I’m tired.”

“You’re too young to be tired.”

“I’m a growing boy. Growing takes energy,” Ezra says, grinning over his shoulder when Kanan chuckles quietly. “‘Sides, you two get to _cuddle_ after you take first watch. So really, I’m doing you a favor here. You should be thanking me.”

Zeb growls and swats at him, unsurprised when Ezra ducks out of the way, looking unbearably pleased with himself as he puts Kanan between himself and Zeb, grinning at him past Kanan’s back. He isn’t wrong, for all that he’s being a brat about it, the promise of Alexsandr sharing his bunk with him after they’ve walked their feet to the bone giving Zeb something to look forward to, even as utterly exhausted as he is by the time they’re showering together and dragging Ezra out of his bunk to take the second shift each night.

That night proves itself no different, has Zeb struggling to keep his eyes open and focused as he shoos Ezra out of his way and pulls down the blankets, the whole bunk shaking as he tosses himself into bed, groaning happily into the embrace of the thin mattress. Alexsandr is hardly doing any better when Zeb settles in well enough to watch him undress, almost losing his balance as he strips out of his sweater, adopting a wider stance to compensate for his momentary loss of grace, a yawn seeming to take him by surprise as he shucks his trousers down his legs and climbs into bed with Zeb, wrapping a proprietary hand around Zeb’s ribs as he settles in, his temple resting warm against Zeb’s shoulder. Affectionate in the way he is only when he's too tired _not_ to be, Zeb's heart swelling at the feel of him, of the quiet blessing of not sleeping alone.

He rubs the side of his face against the top of Alexsandr's head, always easier to show his feelings than to put them into words, enjoying the smell of Alexsandr's hair, damp still and richer with his scent for it. Isn't expecting Alexsandr to respond in kind, but that's what happens, Alexsandr nosing at the fur of Zeb's shoulder, his own fur scrubbing against it as he does, giving him resistance to pull against. He shifts after a moment, pushing himself up enough that he can bite at Zeb’s collarbone and shoulder and throat, slow and careful like he's not sure Zeb's going to like it, rumbling a low, happy sound in his throat when Zeb shivers and turns his head away, exposing the full line of his throat. His teeth are blunter than a lasat's, and smaller, the catch of them against the tendons in Zeb's neck sending bursts of sensation down his chest to clash and ripple in his belly, Alexsandr's hand on his chest anchoring him, his fingers kneading fretfully against Zeb's sternum. He stops when he reaches the sensitive, ticklish spot behind Zeb's ear, nosing at it instead, shivering a little when Zeb and draws a hand up his back, his claws catching in the wrinkles of Alexsandr’s undershirt, pressing just hard enough that he'd maybe leave marks if Alexsandr weren't wearing a shirt, if he were nude against him, and _that_ — 

Alexsandr pulls away to accommodate another yawn, making a quiet sound of frustration as he gives up driving Zeb crazy, melting once again against Zeb's side.

“Where’d you learn all that,” Zeb slurs, drunk on the gentle arousal humming under his skin, mixing and blending with the weariness of the day.

Alexsandr hums, the sound muffled a little where he's got his face pressed into Zeb's fur. “Is that not how lasat show affection?”

“Is, yeah. But you’re human, last I checked.”

“Mm.” Alexsandr moves his hand away from Zeb’s ribs and pushes himself up a few inches, trailing his fingertips across Zeb's belly to stroke the length of himself from sternum to groin, the fabric of his undershirt and shorts catching and creasing as he goes, his wrist flexing where Zeb could _swear_ he’s cupped himself between his legs at the end of his exploration, the firmness of his arousal momentarily pulled away from where it had been pressed close to Zeb's thigh. “Yes, correct. Human still.”

Zeb rolls them, the width of the bunk threatening to make a fool of him for it, but Alexsandr compensates for the limited space they have to work with, moving in close enough to not risk any of his limbs falling over the edge. “I like it, for the record,” he says, stealing a kiss because he can. “You being human.”

“A relief, to be sure,” Alexsandr says, reaching up and stroking the long hairs along Zeb’s jawline — his favorite way of showing affection, Zeb’s noticed, maybe because of its similarity to his own fur, maybe not. Zeb leans into the touch, into the feel of Alexsandr’s palm against his face, clever fingers touching and holding, pulling him down for another kiss.

They kiss only a few minutes before sleep conspires against them, Zeb tumbling into unconsciousness with his head on Alexsandr’s chest, enough of him curled atop the man that it’s small wonder when one of Alexsandr’s nightmares wakes him, shaking him so hard that he’s half-convinced he’s fallen asleep in the middle of a firefight before his brain’s woken enough to help him piece together what’s what. Alexsandr proves more difficult to wake, his body trapped in whatever torture his mind is reliving, his breath coming in short, pained gasps, his entire body pulled tight in its own constriction. Zeb pushes himself up and off of the man, gently patting Alexsandr’s cheek and saying his name, a trick he’s seen Kanan use on Ezra whenever the kid’s been knocked out, stroking his thumb across Alexsandr’s fur when patting him doesn't seem to be doing any good.

“Alexsandr. C’mon. Wake up.”

Alexsandr goes as stiff as if he’s been electrocuted, his eyes opening wide in the darkness of the bunk as he pulls a short, desperate breath into his lungs, his hand clumsy but strong as he lifts it and pushes Zeb’s hand away from his face, a pure, awful terror etching his features for the long second it takes him to wake well enough to recognize Zeb. He collapses in on himself once he has, none of his usual grace on display as he rolls to the side, away from Zeb, pushing himself up with no small degree of difficulty to sit, his legs tumbling over the side of the mattress, his feet hitting the floor with a _thud._

Zeb doesn’t touch him, knows better than to try, but the temptation’s there, his hands itching with it, craving the solid warmth of Alexsandr's back and arms beneath them. “You back with me?” he says, instead.

“I am,” Alexsandr says, his voice low and ragged, pained. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Zeb forces a chuckle. “Ain’t like you have nightmares on purpose,” he says. “None of us do.”

“Mm.” Alexsandr runs a hand over his face and sits up straighter, casting a measured glance around the room, the wary soldier cataloging his surroundings, taking in each of the the shadows napping in the corners, the mess of clothing piled up at the foot of the bunk where neither he nor Zeb had the energy or interest to tidy them away before going to sleep. Pauses when he reaches the glow from the chron on the wall, sighing as he registers the hour.

“I’m doing neither of us any favors, keeping us up all night,” he says.

“Y’ain’t bothering me,” Zeb says, easing back down onto the mattress, giving in to temptation to curl his hand around Alexsandr’s chest as he does, pulling just hard enough to make his point. “C’mon. Lie back down. I’ll stay over where I belong this time instead’a sleeping on top’a you. Can’t imagine that’s doing your subconscious any favors.”

Alexsandr hesitates, tense under Zeb’s hand, considering, but he relents before Zeb’s compelled to try another argument, allowing the weight of Zeb's hand to compel him down onto the mattress. He stretches out on his back, as tense as he ever was in their early days sparring together, his breathing controlled and shallow as he rests his hand on Zeb’s forearm, his thumb worrying the fur there.

"To the contrary,” he tells the bottom of Ezra’s bunk, “I find that position rather pleasant. Comforting, perhaps.”

“You like getting crushed, d’you?” Zeb says.

“No, not especially.”

“I’m not a light creature.”

Alexsandr looks at him sidelong, his hair scrubbing against the pillow as he does. “I would still love you if you were,” he says, “but your size _is_ appealing to me. I’m glad you’re as large as you are.”

And that’s not what Zeb’s expecting, his heart doing funny things in his chest as he lifts his hand to cup Alexsandr’s cheek in his palm once again, this time holding him still to be kissed, taking the kiss long when Alexsandr sighs quietly into his mouth and touches him back, his hand stroking the fur just behind his ears. He pulls away just as sleep is starting to slip across Zeb's higher functions, heavy as a drug, easing Zeb away from him with no small degree of difficulty and pushing himself up, patting Zeb’s arm when Zeb wraps it possessively around his belly, too tired to be polite about wanting him to stay.

“Relax,” Alexsandr tells him, folding himself up into the same pose he adopts for their evening meditations with Kanan and Ezra. "I'm not going anywhere."

“M’kay,” Zeb says, shifting so that he can rest his head in Alexsandr’s lap, just in case Alexsandr is lying to him. Maybe not the most dignified thing he’s ever done, vague memories of sleeping with his head in his grandmother’s lap when he was a kit teasing him for sleeping in the same position now, but it’s _nice_ and Alexsandr doesn’t push him away or tell him to cut it out, instead stroking his hand down the back of Zeb’s head once before settling into stillness, the whispered cadence of his breathing easing Zeb into unconsciousness.

He’s curled around Alexsandr’s body once again when Ezra comes in to prod them awake them in the morning, his head pillowed over Alexsandr’s chest yet again, listening to the muted _thump_ of his heartbeat, his arm slung across the man’s belly, hand hanging over the edge of the mattress. Not the most comfortable he’s ever been, but it’s nice enough that he isn’t best-pleased to be woken, growling threats too muffled by Alexsandr’s undershirt for Ezra to hear, but it feels good to threaten the kid all the same.

Alexsandr makes his opinions much more clearly known, sighing heavily enough that the movement of his chest makes Zeb’s ear tickle before he raises his hand and gives Ezra a tired shove with the Force, hard enough that it sends Ezra stumbling backwards a few steps, his arms flailing as he regains his balance. Ezra stands dumbfounded for the seconds it takes him to realize what’s just happened, his outrage once he's recovered his faculties practically vibrating the air around him. 

“You can’t use the Force like _that,”_ he squawks.

“I think I just did,” Alexsandr says, dropping his hand back to its place on Zeb's forearm.

“Yeah but you can’t — it’s disrespectful to — _I’m telling Kanan,”_ Ezra yells, storming out of the room and leaving Zeb to chuckle against the rumpled fabric of Alexsandr’s undershirt.

“If Kanan says anything, you tell him it was completely justified,” he says.

“You assume I wasn’t acting on his suggestion in the first place,” Alexsandr says, calm as anything, putting a smile on Zeb’s face that sticks around long enough for Ezra to see it when Zeb joins him for their day's work, the kid's annoyance growing and festering heavily enough throughout the day that he actually manages to best Alexsandr when they spar together that evening, both of them panting and sweaty and happier for it by the time they’re settling in for meditation, all apparently forgiven.

— — —

It doesn’t last.

Zeb isn’t expecting it to, experience long ago teaching him that peace is a story parents tell their kits about to help them sleep at night, not a reality for him or anyone else in the galaxy old enough to hold a weapon. Orders come down days later for the Phoenix Squadron to rejoin the Rebellion’s efforts, leaving behind their latest home, melancholy pulling at Zeb’s chest as Hera launches the _Ghost_ from the hangar, circling once over the trees just barely concealing the clearing and the rocky landscape beyond that, before taking them up through the bare clouds of morning, into the yawning blackness of space.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by the brush of Alexsandr’s hand against his wrist, subtle but intentional, for all that Alexsandr’s attention is ostensibly focused on the stars scattered before them, and Zeb’s heart aches with the juvenile urge to pull him close, to feel his body heat. To reclaim some of the closeness they left behind them on the planet’s surface.

He resists. They’ll have time for that sort of thing later, he tells himself. All the time in the world, once they’ve defeated the Empire, once the Rebellion is at their back, helping them. Once they’ve carved peace into the bleeding flesh of the universe and cauterized it, shaped it into something that will _last,_ unchallenged by the shadows of the Empire.

— — —

He’s mulling thoughts of a similar thread in his mind a week later when the TIE Defender Sabine stole from the depot hums into view, backlit by what promises to be a hazy, mild morning on Lothal; some of the most perfect weather he’s found across the stars, really, and easy to imagine Ezra enjoying as a small boy, running around with his parents, chasing loth-cats and squealing with delight. It’s not a bad mental image, thinking about how the kid’ll choose to enjoy his homeworld once they’ve washed it clean of the Empire, with or without the Rebellion’s say. How the others might be convinced to settle down alongside him, to put down roots for once.

Sabine’s helmet nearly hits him when she climbs out of the Defender and hurls it to the ground, drawing Zeb from the warmth of his thoughts, her head down as she storms past him in such a blur that Zeb can't quite to catch her when he tries, dread as cold and empty as the deepest places between the stars spreading across his entire being as he catches Ezra instead and demands an update, even though he knows, as certain of the reality he’s seen only in the worst of his nightmares even before Ezra's spelled it out, his body shaking with unbearable sobs. Zeb pulls him close into the hollow ache fast-spreading through his own chest, the man Ezra was the day before reduced in the space of a heaved, anguished breath to a lost little boy, orphaned once again, his hands grasping desperately at Zeb’s jumpsuit, pulling his fur.

_Gone_ Ezra says, and the word echoes in Zeb's mind like a twisted, poisonous poem, looping and reverberating, smoke stinging his eyes as memory drags him back to the battlefield, all of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms dead around him. Gone, and he wasn’t there, wasn’t there _again,_ wouldn’t’ve done any good if he _had_ been there. Gone, and Zeb can't quite remember if he ever told Kanan that he loved him, that Kanan was as much a brother to him as any of his siblings-by-blood; moreso, maybe. Gone, without ever having known the peace he’d fought for, survived for. Dreamed of openly only in his most vulnerable moments, each tucked around Zeb's heart, as heavy and painful as they are precious.

The notion that it isn't _fair_ presents itself in counterpoint, and _that’s_ a road he knows better than to walk, not sober anyway, retrieving the whiskey he stashed aboard the _Ghost_ what feels like eons before, back when Alexsandr Kallus was the worst part of any given day and Ezra was high on his list of suspicious individuals, still. He pours a glass for each of his family, ready to argue if any of them refuses, his heart fracturing a little deeper when none of them does.

“To Kanan,” he says, lifting his glass.

Sabine lifts her glass and drinks down half its contents in one long gulp, her face streaked with tears. Ezra takes a little sip, then tips to the side, close enough that Zeb can wrap an arm around him, holding him as he raises his glass to his mouth once again, drinking more deeply this time. Hera turns her glass slowly in her hands, staring down at the liquor reflecting the morning light back into her eyes, and doesn’t say anything, the hurt too big, too unfathomable still.

Zeb finishes her drink for her, the blanking numbness of it as awful as it is welcome, his toes tingling when he takes to his feet, his legs heavy, slow to carry him through the tasks still laid out before them, the work to be done uncaring of their loss.

_Unfair_ whispers across his mind once again, slick atop the burn of the liquor already dissipating from his throat, untamed where Alexsandr isn’t there to remind him to drink water along with his whiskey, leaving him open to the full fury of its bite. It gathers like dust in his fur, tucked away where it’s been since Lasan, wrapped up neatly around devastation, around the impotent rage of insignificance in the face of the Empire’s absurd strength, birthing mental images of what he stands to lose, still, tarnishing every touch, every glance from his family working and grieving at his side.

He’s near full to bursting with it when Thrawn's pet assassin finds him and Sabine in the grasslands, hurt and fury coiled so tightly inside him that he _feels_ himself snap, letting himself stretch into the monster he’d promised himself he’d never become, base instinct burning up through desperation, fuel kissed by flame when Sabine marks the creature, robbing it of its evolutionary advantage of invisibility and serving it to Zeb like a cursed offering before a broken god. He grabs the creature by its weak, gasping throat and throws it down, baptising its foul body in the dust of Ezra’s beloved, tortured homeworld and _keeping_ it down, each punch rippling against the creature’s thick skull, reverberating up Zeb’s arm into the ache in his chest, the thick red fury choking up his throat convulsing into a glorious haze of pure, furious hatred, breaking against all of the things he’s never allowed himself to name, to look in the eye, flexing into his knuckles, feeding him every cracked bone, every desperate, gurgling breath from the creature dying at his feet. He pushes his ears back flat against his skull, shielding him from the sound of Sabine’s voice, sharp and desperate as a blade, her hands — so tiny, even for a human’s — pulling at his arm, his fur, when she realizes she's being ignored, the temptation to shove her away, to send her flying, hot at the bend of his elbow.

“Zeb, no,” she says, again and again. “Stop. _Please.”_

Zeb stops. He’s winded, breathing hard. Shaking a little. “Thought you wanted revenge,” he says. Maybe to Sabine, maybe to himself.

“Not like this,” Sabine says, her voice soft, hurting, the ache in Zeb’s chest returning at the sound of it. "Please. Not like this."

She’s right, he thinks as he stands back to watch her have her vengeance on her own terms, the creature still unconscious as she sends him back to his masters streaked in the colors of the Phoenix Squadron, back to a fate worse than dying at Zeb’s hands, if the Empire’s track record is anything to go by.

Sabine has seen enough horror in her short years, he tells himself. She doesn’t need him giving her another to add to the list.

— — —

She isn’t there the next time Zeb’s got the chance to kill the creature, the stench of it hidden under the ozone and smoke clinging to every surface of the Dome's shield generator, its horrible face pinched in concentration as it fires bolt after bolt at Ketsu and Rex. They’re outnumbered and outgunned, the fear staining Gregor’s voice mirroring Zeb’s own, the futility of their efforts just beginning to solidify into an uncomfortable reality, loss hovering in the wings, waiting for its chance to pounce. Not the ending Zeb has imagined for Ezra's crazy plan, and not one he's willing to accept, either, no thought beyond a surge of desperation crowding his mind as he launches himself down onto the platform where the creature stands in half-shadow, Alexsandr’s voice swallowed in the rush of adrenaline and determination as Zeb lands half atop the assassin, inertia compelling him across the slick metal surface, Lothal's gravity dragging the creature down with him.

From there it’s a brawl, Zeb's brute strength pitched evenly against the assassin's agility, the power conductors around them offering only minimal purchase and nothing in the way of cover, their coils bending and creaking under the strain of Zeb’s weight, barely keeping him from falling into the gaping nothingness below. He uses that to his advantage, the pure animal _terror_ stretched thin across his adversary’s expression comfort in the face of the reality that they’re going to die together, the hum of the shield generator buzzing already under Zeb's feet, and it’s maybe just his imagination, but he can feel it tickling the edges of the scar on the underside of his right foot, warm and gentle before it starts to prick at his skin. A thousand shocks whisper the promise of a swift death, at least, and one with honor, saving the lives of thousands in exchange for his own, and he closes his eyes on the small comfort of that thought, sucking in one last, sharp breath as his lungs seize in on themselves, his muscles all tensing in unison as he’s electrocuted, the sensation strangely like he’s imagined flying might feel, smoke rushing past his face like a lover’s breath.

The impact of his shoulder against hard metal brings him back to his surroundings, confusion spinning him dizzy for all of the three seconds he has before Alexsandr is upon him, the platform shaking under the force of his boots as he yanks Zeb to his feet, shaking him, his face pulled into the deepest scowl ever to grace the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale.

“I said, _don’t,”_ he’s saying, his fingers curled hard enough into Zeb’s skin that it’s actually bordering on painful, pressing against bruises just starting to blossom from the fight. “That was the most _foolish,_ dangerous, _stupid —”_

“Did you —” Zeb starts, his brain sluggishly trying to gather itself up, “— you saved me. Didn't you.”

_“Yes,_ of course I saved you, you _idiot._ What did you expect me to do, leave you there to be killed?”

“I, ah. Hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” Zeb says.

“Yes, I gathered as much.” Alexsandr releases his grip on Zeb’s shoulder, pressing his hand instead to Zeb's chest, covering the patch on his jumpsuit. “Are you all right.”

“‘Course I am.”

“Good. I thought —” Alexsandr cuts himself off with a shake of his head, the sound he makes when Zeb leans in close enough to press their foreheads together heartbreaking in its honesty, his other hand sliding up to the back of Zeb’s neck, pulling him down for a graceless kiss. They separate when the commlink in Zeb’s hand crackles to life, Thrawn’s voice cold and unwelcome between them, its usual timbre roughed around the edges as he calls for his putrid murderous _pet,_ the stench of its corpse just starting to rise on the smoke below, irritating Zeb’s nose.

Zeb lifts the commlink, casting a knowing look to Alexsandr as he does. “If you mean the little grey guy, he’s a bit busy at the moment,” he purrs into the commlink. “Better call back later.”

At his side, Alexsandr sighs through his nose, the corners of his mouth pushing just the smallest bit at his cheeks in the prelude to a wicked smile. Zeb slings an arm around his shoulders, enjoying the warmth of him, plainer through the fabric of his Imperial uniform than it is through his usual garments. “On second thought, nevermind about calling back,” he says, and that time, Alexsandr sighs through his mouth, his laughter soft but genuine, tinged with blessed relief.

Zeb isn't expecting an answer from Thrawn and doesn't receive one, either, but he can imagine well enough what Thrawn's face must look like, puckered up like he's taken a bite of an unripe meiloorun. Isn't expecting to see the skies over Lothal filled with purrgil, either, when he and the others arrive back at the command center, but that's what he sees, the sheer amount of damage the purrgil inflict on Thrawn's fleet in mere _seconds_ enough to put a smile on his face, the gossamer tendrils of victory just starting to thread through his nerves, so close he can almost touch them.

— — —

That doesn't last, either.

The thrill of victory sputters and smokes, swallowed in the sad resolve wrapped around Ezra's farewell, in the suddenness of silence as the purrgil flash brilliant blue and make the jump to hyperspace, taking the last of the star destroyers and Ezra with them. Zeb pulls the others aboard the _Ghost_ just in time for Sabine to send the Dome to hell, then stands with his family in silence as they fly over the city, the people gathering in the streets testament to the reality of Lothal's liberation.

_For Kanan,_ he thinks as his heart quietly breaks in his chest, _and for Ezra._

_I’m not sure what else I can stand to lose._

_Author’s ruminations_

I have watched the final episode so many times, now, that I can probably quote it backwards in my _sleep,_ jesus christ, and writing this chapter _still_ gave me fits. My favorite part of the ep probably _should_ be either Kallus' "Zeb _don't"_ or his panicked "Zeb!" while Zeb's down amongst the power coils fighting Rukh, but god help me it's the scene where Sabine distracts everyone so that Ezra can slip away unnoticed. That woman is just _the actual best_ and I love her forever and ever _please send help._

I wrote a veritable tonne of stuff that didn't make it in here that had bloody well _better_ find its way into the next chapter, because it's actually decent stuff, for all that most of it deals with more grief and just a bit of over-the-top melodrama. Oh, and then there's the whole NSFW bit gathering dust in my files because wow, it didn't fit here anywhere. Y'all got thoughts on whether or not you want to see the rating go up to Mature or Explicit on this, or would you rather it stay where it is at Teen-and-up?

Enough outta me. I hope you like this installment well enough. I, for one, hated writing it and I'm glad it's over. Bleh.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the porn in it (and some other stuff too, but ... _c'mon._ We all know what we're doing here).

**Brute Force**

_part viii_

The sun’s not even set over Lothal before the Rebellion makes contact, wanting to know what the hell happened, first, and if there’s any way for them to benefit from it, second, Mon Mothma’s expression of condolences for the loss of their friends stale and perfunctory, her regrets so obviously centered around the loss of Jedi (and the power they offered her cause) that Zeb leaves in a temper without hearing the rest of the conversation, his blood ringing in his ears. He lets his feet carry him into the blessed quiet of late afternoon, aimless as he stalks through the ruined streets of Lothal, out into the wide grasslands beyond the city limits. The open air and empty sky offer more comfort than he's expecting, the shadows cast by the rock formations at the near horizon drawing him out amongst them, the quiet balancing counterpoint to the noise in his head.

Ezra _loved_ to wander through the maze of boulders, told them all about it, once, warm and relaxed after supper one evening. Told them about how he’d pretended when he was little that the boulders were starships, and that he himself was an X-wing, flying around with his arms stretched wide as X-foils, fighting battles against the monolithic stones dwarfing him in the austerity of their shadows, his own cunning and bravery saving Lothal from each of his imagined foes. He’d laughed as he told it, but his eyes were bright with the hurt of memory, gratitude slumping his shoulders as Kanan came to his rescue, recounting a similar story from his own childhood.

“He’ll be back someday,” Zeb tells the boulder nearest him, its smooth surface looking down its nose at him, judging. “He will. Won’t even be that long, now.”

It’s been a handful of hours. Feels like forever. Zeb growls and punches the boulder before his mind can formulate any sort of retort on its behalf, the boulder remaining unmoved, stony and silent before him.

He punches it again, and again after that, relishing the pain of impact reverberating up his wrist and forearm, throbbing in his elbow, his claws scoring the soft sedimentary stone on his next strike, dust rising in halted gasps as he tears at it, mindless and mad, his breath choking in his throat, dry and brittle and bitter. One of his claws splinters on impact when his strike goes wide against the curve of the stone, the _give_ of it as it splits all the way down to its clawbed telling him that’s what’s happened even before the pain hits, the sting as sharp as a blade slicing through his hand, the stench of blood mixing with the dust of evening, pungent in his nostrils. His stomach rises and falls along it, coiling in his shoulder, all the power of the universe poised to break the entire planet to pieces on his next strike, to rip it apart and stuff it into the gaping hole left behind where his family was once whole.

The strike doesn’t come.

Tightness clamps down on him _hard_ instead, flattening the fur around his vambraces and trapping him in the momentary breathlessness before the attack comes, a blur of black outlined in the brilliance of an active bo-rifle falling on him before he’s managed to react to being restrained. The first strike throws his arm wide and shoves him from the chest, his claws gripping the parched soil for only a second before the next attack comes, Kallus’ teeth bared and knuckles sallow where he’s gripping his bo-rifle with deathly force, the strike aimed with the intent to land, only Zeb’s years of experience fighting and surviving giving him the wherewithal to dodge, yanking his own bo-rifle from his back and engaging it as he does, snarling as he counters. Kallus meets the blow with little more than a grunt, his face twisted into a cruel, vicious snarl.

“What in the hell’re you doing?” Zeb says, pushing hard enough to send a normal opponent flying.

Kallus doesn’t budge. He doesn’t answer, either, beyond disengaging the energy arcing at the ends of Zeb’s rifle with the subtlest twitch of his non-dominant hand, the glow from his own weapon blanching the color from his face, his spots barely visible in the shadowed creases around his eyes and mouth for the bare seconds before he ducks into a low strike, grabbing the back of Zeb’s knee with the Force, buckling it. Zeb’s temper reignites as he stumbles, the strike he offers in answer vicious and feral, brushing close enough that he can smell Kallus’ scent under the stale smell of his Imperial uniform, the pungent bite of the oil he uses on his bo-rifle. Close enough that the blow _should_ land, the way Kallus hesitates the only indication that he’s using his abilities to keep it from finding its mark.

Zeb retreats a few steps and adjusts his grip on his weapon, curling back his lips far enough to show teeth, then attacks.

They clash rifle-to-rifle with all of the ferocity of their earliest interactions, all the body-knowledge of their hours spent sparring freeing Zeb to fight as hard and dirty as he’s ever done against an opponent before, all of the _everything_ consuming him gathering and fraying and falling apart with each strike he parries, each attack that doesn’t quite land. Kallus swears when Zeb manages to disarm him, his bo-rifle clattering across the ground to rest in the shadows heavy at the foot of one of the stones, but he doesn’t surrender, no subtlety in the gripping motion that rips Zeb’s rifle from his hands, sending it over to bash against the same stone, the disrespect shown to his weapon, the last piece of _home_ he has, enough that Zeb’s vision blurs, his next attack sloppy, the sort of thing Kanan would scold Ezra for pulling if it were Ezra facing off against Kallus, and the fact that it isn’t, that it might not ever be again —

Kallus pins him before he can do him any permanent harm, has him on the ground and immobilized before Zeb’s brain has caught up, his muscles straining against Kallus’ bodyweight, against the pressure where Kallus is using the Force to augment the hold he’s chosen. Breathing hard, his chest heaving where it hovers over Zeb’s, his skin bright with sweat, sticking his hair to his forehead, his eyes wild.

 _“Again,”_ he says, relenting.

“As much as you think you can handle,” Zeb growls, climbing to his feet.

They brawl against one another for the better part of an hour, instinct and anger and grief driving them more than skill or strategy or care, Zeb’s ruined claw catching in the fabric of Kallus’ sleeve at one point, ripping both in a shriek of blood and tatter, his elbow catching Kallus’ bad leg in a parry strong enough to rip an agonized howl from Kallus’ throat. They could kill each other like this, something small and quiet at the back of the riotous cacophony in Zeb’s mind warns, apprehension just starting to chew at the strings of his soul, when a noise catches his attention, dragging movement behind it, a figure folded into the shadows of the boulders, lifting a weapon. A blaster, Zeb realizes, its sight aimed at Alexsandr, and Zeb doesn’t need to think before he's hurling himself into the strike Kallus has pulled his arm back to deliver, his entire body airborne when the stun bolt hits him, seizing up his spine and burning across his skin, every muscle in his body crushing its fist around his lungs for the sharp, suffocating second before blackness takes him, Alexsandr’s panicked shout of his name going with him into oblivion.

— — —

He’s warm when he comes to, warm in a humid, claustrophobic sort of way, his neck pitched at a sharp angle, a small but overachieving stone making its presence known in the flesh of his hip. Beyond that, everything hurts, from the dull throb of his hand to the burning ache blossoming across his lower ribs, a hand soothing down his upper arm, Alexsandr’s voice rumbling where Zeb’s head rests close to his belly, the words muddied and blurred with those of whomever he’s talking to, fragments of their conversation playing tricks on Zeb's ears.

_— thought you were going to kill him. I didn’t know what else to do._

_It’s hardly a secret that we spar against one another with some regularity. You yourself have covered for me when I’ve gone to train with Garazeb. You know this is normal, between us._

_This was different, though. You’re bleeding. So is he._

_These are unusual circumstances. Surely you know that. We were working things out._

Zeb’s stomach heaves, rolling from his navel to his throat, and he rolls with it, the hand on his arm tightening, keeping him from falling flat on his face, at least, his descent controlled enough that he doesn’t vomit all over the grasses tickling his nose, but it’s a near thing, the dust he breathes in doing him no favors, either.

_He’ll probably threaten to kill you for this, once he’s got his faculties about him again._

_Yes, I — I expected as much._

_You’ll deserve it, you know. For shooting him. For trying to shoot me._

_I thought —_

_Yes, you’ve explained yourself to me. You’re on your own, explaining it to him._

“Explaining _what_ to me,” Zeb says, trying to turn his head, his neck too stiff for him to see Alexsandr or — Lyste, he’s fairly certain, it sounds like Lyste anyway, has his accent, at least, for all that his voice is pitched a bit higher than usual.

“Why you’re lying here with your head in my lap and a stun-bolt burn on your chest,” Alexsandr says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got _shot,”_ Zeb says, his arms heavy as proton cannons as he pushes against the ground beneath him, the parched dirt all at once too soft for him to gain purchase and not soft at all, his shoulder and hip and wrist all registering complaint as he moves.

Alexsandr helps him sit up, brushing him off a little, even. “Not shot,” he says. “Just stunned.”

Zeb grunts and looks past him, baring his teeth at the sight of Lyste standing nearby, hands worrying each other and eyes huge, his cheeks flushed stupid pink, highlighted in the shadows hoarding what’s left of the daylight. “And _who_ might’a thought stunning me was a good idea.”

“In his defense,” Alexsandr says, “he wasn’t aiming for _you.”_

“Yeah? And who was he been aiming for instead? _You?”_

“Yes.”

“Ain’t much of a defense.”

“Well, he _did_ think I was going to kill you.”

Zeb shakes his head and pushes himself up to kneel, his balance doing creative things with its relationship to the planet’s gravity. “What in god’s name gave you _that_ idea,” he says.

“The uniform,” Lyste says. “From a distance, it was all I could see. I thought a straggler had found you, some officer who hadn’t made it to the Dome in time.”

Zeb blinks at him, the words jumbling between his ears. “You — _wha.”_

“He saw my uniform and assumed I was an Imperial officer who’d taken the chance to ambush you when you were out here, alone and distracted, and he took the shot,” Alexsandr translates.

Oh. Zeb mulls that over for a moment, his stomach registering its displeasure with the whole thing, rolling along the underside of his ribs.

“Right," he says, finally, "not that I’m complaining, but why stun him? I would’a straight-up killed the bastard, if I'd seen what you thought you saw.”

“I considered it,” Lyste says, “but I thought it might be good to have a single prisoner, someone to tell us if there were any nasty Imperial surprises hidden in the city. Maybe give him the chance to defect, like I — like _we,_ Kallus and I — did. If he wanted. So I decided to stun him, but switching my blaster to stun slowed me down enough for you to jump in the way. So I hit you instead.”

Zeb looks from Lyste to Alexsandr, taking in the disheveled state of the man, the rich black of his Imperial uniform pale with streaks of dirt framed in splashes of dust, the sleeve ripped, blood drying to rust across Alexsandr’s pale skin beneath. Convincingly Imperial, even kneeling in the dirt as he is, one of his hands resting on Zeb’s thigh, gentle and protective.

“Still kind’a tempted to beat my opinion int’a you for this,” he says, looking back at Lyste, “but — that’s not bad, all considered. Better than I would’a managed, if I’d been in your place.”

“Really?” Lyste says, brightening.

“Either that or it’s the stunner making me soft.”

Zeb pushes himself to his feet, embarrassed and pleased by equal measure when Alexsandr stands with him, helping him keep his feet, the air bending and flowing like bacta around him for the seconds it takes his equilibrium to catch up. His hand’s throbbing, gravity pulling its unnatural heaviness back towards the ground even after the rest of him has managed to balance upright, and he lifts it, curious, once he’s sure he’s not going to land himself unceremoniously back in the grass, wincing a little at the state of his trigger finger, his fur matted with blood, the claw split and splintered, painful and swollen when he flexes his fingers experimentally, a sharp sting rewarding his curiosity, fresh blood blossoming along the clawbed.

“Gross,” he decides.

“And in need of medical attention,” Alexsandr says. “Come on.”

Zeb doesn’t argue, only pulling away from Alexsandr’s touch to lumber across the field and retrieve his bo-rifle from its place at the foot of the boulder he takes some private pleasure in seeing scarred with his own claw-marks, maybe even splattered a little with his blood — hard to tell in the greys of twilight — the marks standing testament to his promise that they’ll find Ezra, that they’ll bring him home. He picks up Alexsandr’s bo-rifle as well, shouldering it when Alexsandr ignores him holding it out to him in favor of wrapping his uninjured arm around Zeb’s waist, keeping him close as they walk back to town together, Lyste falling into step at Alexsandr’s other side, quiet and chewing his lower lip as he walks, casting a look Zeb’s way every so often.

They end up patching one another up aboard the _Ghost,_ the medical center near the edge of the city too overwhelmed with the aftermath of Thrawn’s assault to handle injuries as small as the ones they’re sporting, the smell of blood and bacta sour in the air outside the open clinic doors, mixing with smoke and body odor, pungent and thick. Lyste sticks around, looking wholly uncomfortable, until Alexsandr shoos him off, the way he hesitates, offering Zeb one last apology before obeying, earnest and awkward, just similar enough to the way Alexsandr behaved just after his defection that it has Zeb feeling nostalgic, just distracted enough by memory to compensate for the sharp, gnawing sting crawling up his arm as he washes his injured finger, stars poking bright spots in his vision as Alexsandr takes over for him, drying his hand with a cloth before he lifts it for a closer look.

“Perhaps we should have gone to medical after all,” he says, turning Zeb’s hand in his own, considering it. “You may lose this nail completely.”

“Thinking I might, yeah,” Zeb says. “Knew as much when it happened.” He pulls his hand free of Alexsandr’s grip, looking at the injury himself, the claw split down to the bed, shattered. Definitely ruined. “Ain’t a big deal. Happens to lasat my age all the time. They make prosthetics for it, pretty cheap if you know where to look.”

“All the same, I wish I’d found you sooner,” Alexsandr says. “I could have stopped you.”

 _“Did_ stop me,” Zeb reminds him. “Didn’t need to, though. I wouldn’t’a broken off more’n this. Honest.”

He means it as a joke, but it falls flat, Alexsandr’s touch firm and efficient as he takes Zeb’s hand back and bandages it, the bacta he smears across the injury, pressing it down where it can do what it needs to do, cold and awful against exposed nerve for the seconds it takes it to numb Zeb to the wrist, the bandage wrapped around his finger bulky and awkward when he takes his turn, cleaning the scratches he left in Alexsandr’s skin, more of his own blood coming away on the cloth than Alexsandr’s, a realization he keeps to himself.

“Thanks, by the way,” he says, once he’s got Alexsandr cleaned and bandaged, no blood left obscuring his spots, “for helping me get it out'a my system. I needed that.”

“As much as I would love to tell you it was a selfless gesture,” he says, “it was as much for me as it was for you.”

Zeb lifts his brows, for all that Alexsandr isn't looking at him, focused intently on the toes of his own boots. "Glad to hear that," he says after a moment, awkward. 

Alexsandr glances up at him, his next exhalation not quite a sigh, but he's keeping it restrained, hiding it. “I recognize that the loss is significantly more devastating for you, and for your family," he says, "but — Kanan was the first Rebel to be kind to me, other than you. He trusted me long before most others did, for no reason I can fathom. Certainly for no benefit of his own. I learned much from him over the course of the evenings I sparred against his student, and more from conversations he initiated with me. I might have counted him as a friend, if pressed to do so, and his death —” He lifts his shoulders in an aborted shrug. "I felt it keenly, and feel it keenly still."

Anguish answers, clawing at Zeb’s throat. He swallows around it, the ache passing down into his chest. “Yeah.”

“And Ezra —” Alexsandr shakes his head, a helpless look lifting his brows, tickling the strands of his hair hanging heavy over his eyes. “Had you told me a year ago that memory of sparring with that boy would be among my most cherished, I would have thought you’d lost your mind, or were trying to make an absurd joke.”

“Ezra ain’t gone,” Zeb says, his tone more aggressive than he’d intended.

“No, he isn’t,” Alexsandr says. “I know you're saying that out of faith, as comfort to us both, but — I can tell he isn't gone. Isn't dead, I mean. It’s — strange, being able to feel him as I do. All of you, I can —” He gestures vaguely across the room, the dull durasteel walls ignoring him, his hand dropping to his thigh, defeated. “There is so much I wish I’d asked Kanan to teach me about this gift. So much he had to teach me. I'd thought we would have more time. _So_ much more time.”

“Yeah,” Zeb says quietly. “So did I.”

He leans forward, angling himself a little awkwardly to avoid bumping into Alexsandr’s shoulder, and rests his forehead against Alexsandr’s temple, closing his eyes when Alexsandr leans into him in answer, the two of them sitting in the quiet of hurt for what feels like a long time, measured in the throb of heartbeats counted and collected at the tip of Zeb’s injured finger. Its ache finally compels Zeb away, the notion that he should probably wash himself before taking some painkillers and sleeping for a week, at least, flitting past his ears, given what little attention it deserves. Which isn’t any.

“Dunno about you," he says, "but I’m bushed. Hard to believe it's only been a day."

“It is, and I am, yes,” Alexsandr says. “I’ve meant to tell you, I've been assigned a small room in one of the abandoned Imperial barracks while we’re planetside. It’s mostly private, and it has a bed, not a cot or a bunk.”

“Oh, the luxury.”

“Hardly,” Alexsandr says. “All the same, I’d like you to share it with me this evening, if you’re willing.”

“Something wrong with my bunk here?”

Alexsandr flinches, just a degree, the motion tiny but impossible to miss, as close as they’re sitting. “Yes,” he says, quietly. “I’m not ready to face reality that directly. Not tonight. I had assumed you wouldn’t be, either.”

“Face —” Zeb starts before it hits him, confusion crawling over the mental image of his bunk and presenting him with _Ezra,_ the inconsolable ache of it all rediscovering him all over again, only the strain of his body and the muted throb of his hand keeping him from going out to lose a fight against another boulder. “Right. That’s, ah. You got a point there.”

Alexsandr stands. "Thank you."

They walk through the streets together in silence, the hushed bustle of the city pulled back behind the walls of the buildings still standing, the darkness of night doing what it can to conceal the Imperial propaganda not yet ripped down from every available surface. One of Sabine’s firebirds, fresh and new still, graces the corner of the building Alexsandr nudges him towards, what looks to have been at some point a low-rate hotel, all personality it might have had stripped from it upon its appropriation. Stormtrooper armor separated into crates clutters the main lobby, a long cabinet lining one of the far walls empty where it must have once housed weapons. Alexsandr’s assigned quarters are just as stale and sterile, the walls the same pale stone common across Lothal, light in contrast to the dark durasteel of the bed’s frame, a quick construction that sits low to the floor and is topped with a standard-issue mattress, pillow, and blanket, little else breaking up the monotony of the room, save for a shelf hastily mounted to the wall and a crate at the foot of the bed, the latter a familiar accompaniment to every bunk Alexsandr's had assigned to him since he joined the Rebellion, his tiny square of _home,_ the faintest glow seeping out where its hinges don't quite lie flat the only warmth in the room.

"Sabine'll love you forever if you let her come in to brighten up the place a little," Zeb says, looking around. "Looks like a prison cell in here."

"I'll consider it," Alexsandr says. "It had a bit more personalization when I was first assigned it, but I cleared it out."

 _Personalization._ Zeb’s ears curl back at the thought. "Anybody you knew?"

"I have no idea, thankfully. There was only a TK number on the assignment roster. No names."

Zeb's stomach turns that over a few times, the thoughts that pass through slowly enough for him to taste them each more bitter than the last, the sight of Alexsandr in his old ISB uniform only making it worse, only the fuzz where he's been letting the fur on his chin and upper lip grow unimpeded and the loose wildness of his hair helping to break the illusion. He looks like he's been pulled from a string of thoughts no more pleasant than Zeb's when Zeb touches him, little more than a hand on his shoulder, the way he sighs as he leans his head to the side to brush his fur against the back of Zeb's hand as heartbreaking as it is endearing.

"Should get you out'a that get-up before you pass out for the night," Zeb says. "Doesn't look like it's all that comfy."

"Less so even than I'd remembered," Alexsandr says, holding out his arms and looking himself over. "I — _we_ — did quite a number on it."

“Said once you had fantasies’a burning it,” Zeb says, “and since this one’s been ripped up like it has, I don't think anyone'd fault you for going through with that plan.”

Alexsandr chuckles softly, dropping his hands back to his sides. “Appealing as that sounds,” he says, “it can certainly be mended and used again.”

“Yeah, but —”

“And I would rather _like_ to use it again myself," Alexsandr says. "Taking apart the Empire from the inside is, frankly, gratifying. Any excuse I have to do it, I’ll gladly take.”

His voice is low and serious, as deadly as it's ever been in a fight, and that _shouldn’t_ be arousing, Zeb thinks as he leans in to kiss him on the mouth, shouldn’t have his heartbeats snarling amongst themselves in his chest and throat and temples, bright spots painted across his skin as Alexsandr touches him, sliding his hands up Zeb’s back, kneading at him as they kiss, but it is, and maddeningly so, at that.

“Can I at least be the one to strip you out’a it?” Zeb says, ducking his head to rub his cheek against Alexsandr’s, nosing at the smooth curve of his ear.

“I’d like that. Please,” Alexsandr says, keeping his hands where they are, curved around Zeb’s ribs, while Zeb fumbles with his belt, the bandage on his finger and the unfamiliarity of the clasp doing him no favors, robbing him of Alexsandr’s touch when Alexsandr finally takes pity on him and unclasps the belt himself. The rest of the uniform is no more straightforward, frustration licking at the curling edges of _want_ in Zeb’s belly as he tugs at it, Alexsandr laughing at him — not even trying to hide that he is — as he steps back and sets about undressing himself.

“There’s a zipper here,” he says, reaching up to the collar of his jacket, “similar to the trousers, only that zipper is _here ...”_

Zeb watches, entranced by the contrast of dark fabric against pale skin as Alexandr undresses, draping his filthy, ripped uniform over the crate at the foot of the bed with more reverence than it deserves, leaving him clad only in his underwear, his usual undershirt and shorts replaced with a tight, unforgiving piece that covers him from navel to upper thigh, half-concealing his scar, the center of garment stretched tight over a cup protecting his groin.

"Didn't know it came with regulation underwear, too," Zeb says without thinking, offering a lopsided grin when Alexsandr looks at him, couldn't possibly have missed him staring.

"All in the name of uniformity," Alexsandr says, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of the underwear and pulling, easing them down over the hard line of his cock, the muscles of his legs flexing as he frees one leg and then the other, tossing the underwear to land beside the rest of his uniform, rumpled fabric crowned by the cup. "Quite literally."

Zeb stares, Alexsandr's words passing over him without registering. He’s seen Alexsandr naked before, of course, hasn’t been terribly subtle about looking him over whenever they’ve showered together, knows the feel of his arousal from the nights they’ve slept together, curled around each other with little more than their undergarments between them, but this — 

Alexsandr Kallus looks _good,_ naked.

The fur on his chest and belly is thicker than on most humans Zeb’s seen either nude or mostly nude, thick between his legs and under his arms, sparser as it spreads down his arms and legs. His fair skin is peppered across with the same spots he’s got on his face, their pattern interrupted by a myriad of bright white scars spread across him like a star map. Their sparring sessions have preserved all of the muscle he had as an imp, added to it maybe, his strength lending bulk to his frame, larger than most humans Zeb’s known, his hands strong and sure as he steps in close and reaches for the fastener of Zeb’s jumpsuit, leaning in to rub and bite at Zeb’s throat and chest as he pushes the fabric down, no rush to it, only stepping back when Zeb has to take over in order to strip himself fully nude, kicking his jumpsuit over to rest next to Alexsandr’s clothes. He resists the juvenile urge to cover himself when he sees Alexsandr looking at him, at his cock, fully emerged from its sheath. Different from a human’s, but not so strikingly as some species, and surely Alexsandr had _some_ idea what he was getting into when he decided to fall in love with a big hairy purple monster, Zeb thinks, if not in specific then in general, self-consciousness as welcome as a splash of cold mud against —

Alexsandr closes the distance between them and touches him, wraps his hand around Zeb’s cock without any hesitation or squeamishness, the side of his thumb grazing over the nubs as he drags it up, over the smooth curve of the head, his fingers holding in firm counterpoint, keeping Zeb steady as he moves in close enough to press his belly against the length of him, his skin warm beneath his fur, his breath coming out in a long, contented sigh as he presses his own cock against Zeb’s thigh, moving just right to rub them against each other.

“I want —” he starts, but he cuts himself off, giving Zeb’s cock a squeeze before lifting his hand to wrap around the back of Zeb’s neck, pulling him down for a breathless kiss, his other hand going to the sensitive spot over Zeb’s ribs where he was stunned, earlier, the feel of him, _all_ of him, turning Zeb on harder than anything he’s experienced before with any lover, lasat or otherwise. Zeb closes his eyes and sinks into it, pleasure rumbling through his chest, his world reduced to the feel of Alexsandr biting him, _marking_ him, pulling him over to his bed, no gentleness or subtlety in his touch as he pulls Zeb to straddle his thighs, apparently uncaring of Zeb’s weight resting on his bad leg.

“I want so badly to kriff you,” he breathes into Zeb’s chest, punctuating his words with a none-too-gentle bite at Zeb’s left pectoral, his hands on Zeb’s cock once again, stroking and squeezing, the pad of his thumb dragging over the slit at the tip, tracing the line of the head. “If you’re interested.”

Zeb groans, his hips jerking a little as he pushes up into Alexsandr’s grip, reveling in the feel of bare skin against him, Alexsandr’s palm stuttering a little against the nubs of his cock, smooth and strange to him, so different from the familiar feel of his own touch. “Yeah,” he says. "I want that, too.”

He doesn’t ask if Alexsandr knows how kriffing works with a male lasat lover, can't find the words to ask, but his worries are put quickly and fully to rest as Alexsandr bites him and touches him and stretches him, his clever fingers doing the most wonderful things to the tight muscle of Zeb's ass, easing him open, working him slow and steady until he's dripping between them, breathing hard. His heart stutters against his ribs, brightness reverberating out in sunbursts from the center of where he got shot, when Alexsandr _finally_ slides into him, smooth and solid and _hard,_ so hard, the sound he makes as he does broken and beautiful, muffled where he rests his forehead against Zeb’s chest. The sound brighter still when he lies back, lifting his hips in a slow, easy rhythm, shifting himself in and out of Zeb's body like he isn't sure Zeb's going to like it, a blessing of friction rippling out, sharp and sweet where he’s got Zeb stretched wide around him.

"Y'feel _good,"_ Zeb says when Alexsandr breathes _is that ok_ into the quiet of the room, and moves against him in counterpoint, the stretch of Alexsandr's cock inside him good until he's got himself angled just right for it to press _hard_ against the places where his muscles tense on each backward push. Then it's _incredible,_ has him groaning softly as he rocks forward, pressing his palms into the mattress to either side of Alexsandr's head, sliding himself forward then back again on him, letting the feel of Alexsandr inside and under him drive short, quick breaths from his lungs, his cock pressed into the softness of Alexsandr's belly, rubbing into the thick curls of his fur.

Under him, Alexsandr grips fretfully at the sheets, anchoring himself as he thrusts up in counterpoint, not quite matching Zeb's rhythm, the friction between them raw and _maddening._ He lets go of the bedsheets after a minute or two and grabs at Zeb's hip instead, moaning and pushing up harder as he does, his hand tracing a distracted trail down the inside of Zeb's thigh to his cock, bumping his palm against the slick head a few times before sliding it down the length, giving Zeb a tight, warm space to fuck into, shoving backwards with renewed urgency onto Alexsandr's cock, the ridges between Alexsandr's fingers catching at the nubs, Zeb's slick working down through them, driving him crazy.

He's just starting to feel dizzy with the tightening promise of gratification, orgasm building hot at the core of him, when Alexsandr goes tense under him, the cadence of his fucking crumbling into a shaking, messy bid for _more,_ his voice rising both in pitch and volume as Zeb pushes back against him, keeping him deep, the way he shakes and thrusts and shudders doing the most wonderful things to Zeb's insides, the feel of it rushing down the length of his cock, reverberating in the friction from Alexsandr's hand, the tensed muscles of his abdomen.

"I'm — _oh,_ Garazeb, _karabast_ I'm —" Alexsandr manages before his back bows off the mattress as far as it can under Zeb's weight, his head falling back and mouth opening on a thin, quiet sound that grows and spreads as he jerks and starts to come, the sound and feel of him, fully at the mercy of his orgasm, making Zeb's skin _burn_ with wanting, his body tightening in response, reaching desperately for his own release, Alexsandr's hand clenching around the length of his cock doing frankly amazing things to him. Not quite enough to finish him, but damn good all the same, the feel of Alexsandr's hand trapped between them, his cock jerking inside Zeb's ass as Zeb leans in to kiss him, tasting breathless euphoria on his mouth, maddening and erotic. He drives a tired breath from Alexsandr's lungs on his next thrust, Alexsandr tightening his grip, murmuring his pleasure as Zeb leans back from the kissing, fucking steadily into Alexsandr's hand.

He's watching, Zeb realizes, his gaze hazy and sated but focused, the intensity of it swallowing Zeb whole, every hair across Zeb's body rising to stand on end as he pushes himself forward in greedy pursuit of orgasm, the strength of Alexsandr's grip, the breathless way he says Zeb's name, punctuated with _yes_ and _please_ and _come for me, let me see you_ making Zeb feel like a _god,_ desired and beautiful under the intensity of Alexsandr's attentions. Makes him feel _wanted,_ just as badly as he wants the man beneath him, all of it gathering and filling him, swelling in him as he tightens down where Alexsandr is inside him, still, and when it hits, the burn seizing him from groin to throat, tense and unbearable for the bright, hot second before it breaks, his voice breaks with it, frayed and helpless in his throat, his cock pulsing in Alexsandr's grip, ejaculate striping across Alexsandr's chest, making a mess of his fur. He groans as the aftershocks ripple through him, the room pitching and yawing around him as he sucks in a mouthful of dry, dusty air, hyper-aware of Alexsandr's touch lingering along the length of his cock, his palm relenting, replaced with the touch of his fingertips, small and smooth as they circle the tip of each nub just above the root of Zeb's cock, his wrist brushing the fur of Zeb's belly, just ticklish enough to make Zeb shiver, dizzied as he tumbles down from his peak.

"Incredible," Zeb breathes, leaning down to brush his cheek against Alexsandr's, giving in to the temptation to taste the smooth curve of his ear, rewarded immediately with a shiver that pulls Alexsandr's cock out of him a few centimeters, the way he turns his head to the side to give Zeb room to do it again, making a small, satisfied sound at the back of his throat when Zeb complies, making Zeb's heart ache, pressing itself hard against his his ribs. He moves lower once Alexsandr has slipped from him completely, biting at the marks he left earlier on Alexsandr's throat, tasting the curve of his shoulder, peppered more heavily with spots than the rest of him. Then lower still, dragging his tongue up the side of the mess of his own ejaculate, tasting himself mingled with Alexsandr's sweat, both tinted bitter with the dust of Lothal; a good thing, all of it, as intoxicating as any alcohol he's ever tasted, has him purring softly, the sound rolling through his chest, unmistakable and audible before he's realized what's happening and shut himself up.

Under him, Alexsandr sighs, the weight of the world sliding along his breath, silent as it settles in the floor beside the bed. "So you _can_ purr," he says, drifting his fingertips down the back of Zeb's ear and along the line of his neck. "I'd wondered."

"Didn't mean to," Zeb says, staying down where he doesn't have to see whatever look Alexsandr might be giving him.

"I like it," Alexsandr says. "I wasn't sure you were able."

He's got his eyes closed when Zeb gives in and steals a peek at him, his chin tipped up, throat exposed. Still breathing a little harder than normal, his voice rumbling a pleased sound when Zeb ducks his head down and licks him again, this time letting his own chest rumble in answer, uninhibited, Alexsandr shifting under him a little, lifting his hand and pressing it against Zeb's ribs to — Zeb assumes — better-feel the vibrations.

"Made a mess of each other," Zeb says when sleep starts to tug insistently at him, the temptation to curl around Alexsandr and let it win tempered only by the streaks of ejaculate smeared between them, starting to cool unpleasantly where it's stuck in Zeb's fur. "They give you a shower to go along with your nice bed, here?"

"Mm. They did, yes. Communal, just down the hall."

"Need me to carry you there?"

He's expecting a mild glare for his humor but he gets a tired chuckle instead, Alexsandr sitting up enough to kiss him, sloppy and perfect, then nuzzling into his cheek. "No. I'm heavier than I look, and you've been through more than enough already today," he says.

"Doesn't mean I can't —"

 _"— and_ I would never live it down if you did and someone saw us," Alexsandr says. He sighs, rubbing his forehead against Zeb's shoulder. "Though I'll confess, it's tempting all the same."

His eyes go comically wide when Zeb takes that as permission enough to scoop him up, his balance not at its best as he climbs out of bed with Alexsandr in his arms, Alexsandr grabbing onto him like he thinks Zeb's going to drop him, the streaks of ejaculate on his chest smearing in Zeb's fur, his fingers digging hard into the muscle of Zeb's neck and shoulders, inadvertently working out some of the day's tension hoarded there.

"Garazeb, I _just_ said —"

"Y'ain't all _that_ heavy," Zeb says, jostling him a little.

"Put me _down."_

"You pick me up all the time," Zeb reminds him. "Did earlier today, even."

"Yes, well. My life is _hardly_ in danger, here."

Zeb considers that. "Yeah, all right, got a point there," he concedes after a moment, carefully setting Alexsandr down, stealing a kiss as he does. "Thanks, by the way. For saving me."

"I am doing my _best_ not to think about it ever again," Alexsandr tells him, "and am having poor success in that arena, at best. I'd recommend you not bring it up, unless you're looking to be thrown back in my bed and kriffed all over again until I _can't_ think about it or anything else anymore."

"That ain't exactly discouraging me, y'know," Zeb says, lifting his brow in what he hopes comes off as suggestive, not silly.

"Well it _should,"_ Alexsandr says, opening the crate at the foot of his bed and pulling out a cloth, which he uses to scrub at the mess on his chest and belly, his skin pinking under the friction. "I can't fathom the thought of losing you. Really I can't."

Zeb crosses the room and pulls him up for a kiss, all the feeling in the wide galaxy overwhelming and swallowing him as he does, so much that he can't breathe from it, drowning in the feel of Alexsandr's mouth against his own, his hands tight-gripping Zeb's forearms. "I'm not going anywhere," Zeb promises, pressing their foreheads together. "Well. 'Cept to the shower. Offer to carry you there still stands."

Alexsandr laughs and kisses him, pulling away to dress himself without another word.

— — —

It’s bare morning when Zeb wakes from a deep, velvety sleep, silvered light quietly slipping through the window, open now, just a few centimeters. Early yet, too early for being awake, especially as sore as Zeb is, his finger throbbing in time with the slow, comfortable rhythm of his heart, all of the bruises and strains from the day prior lifting their heads and reaching for him, demanding his attention. He isn’t alone, at least, but Alexsandr isn’t lying at his side (or, more accurately, under him), instead sitting up, his legs folded and back straight, the familiar pose of his meditations, his body straight and controlled, motionless save for the slow, steady rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathes.

A fitting tribute to Ezra, to Kanan, the thought stabbing ice between Zeb's ribs, compelling him to curl closer, just barely touching, drawing in a slow, deep breath as he does, Alexsandr’s scent mixing with the unfamiliar must of the room, of the plantlife nearby, winding in through the open window. Just similar enough to the past to make his heart ache, his thoughts slipping far enough into the redundant fear of loss for him to give in to the temptation to curl closer to Alexsandr, his forehead pressed close to Alexsandr’s hip, soaking in the heat of him. Above him, Alexsandr shifts, his hand slipping from its place on his knee to rest just under Zeb’s ear, not stroking him but present, the gentle affection held in the gesture soothing the hurt in Zeb’s soul, loosening the fist clenched around his heart, a quiet purr rumbling up to take its place.

He’s nearly drifted back to sleep when Alexsandr stiffens, sucking in a sharp breath, his entire body tensed as if preparing for an attack. Seeing a vision, Zeb thinks as he pushes himself up and says Alexsandr's name, his eyes wide in the dull light of the room.

Alexsandr pays him no mind. “How,” he says, staring at the center of the room, his voice rough from sleep, tight in his throat. “How is this —"

He's tense as a bowstring when Zeb touches him, doesn't respond to that any better than he does to the sound of his name, his throat working as he swallows, the bed shaking a little as he unfolds himself and takes a single step to the center of the room, reaching out and touching empty air. He makes a harsh, pained sound, like a laugh punched from him, and turns, meeting Zeb's gaze before turning back again.

"He won't believe me," he says. "I'm not sure I believe it myself."

Zeb unfolds his legs, dropping them over the side of the bed, but stays put, his skin crawling in unease, fur standing so intently on end that it prickles at every breath of air slipping through the open window, making him itch.

"I see," Alexsandr says. "What of Ezra? Have you located him?"

"Ezra?" Zeb repeats, his legs flexing, bringing him to stand before he's processed the thought. "What in the name'a —"

"That hardly seems fair," Alexsandr says, as if he's not heard Zeb speak, crossing his arms over his chest.

A moment. Then: "Hera —" He stops, his mouth pressed in a thin, firm line. "I will," he says, "but — is there no way for you to tell her yourself?"

A sigh, punctuated by a nod. "I see. Well, I will do my best, then. How can I speak with you again?"

His face flushes a moderate shade of red before he says, again, "I see. Well, I will do my best to replicate that in the future, as I'm able."

Then: "I will. Thank you."

He blinks and turns to Zeb, one eyebrow arched high enough to be fully obscured by his hair. Zeb matches him raised brow for raised brow, the quiet between them as heavy as the world.

"The hell was all that," Zeb says once the silence has stretched further than he can stand it.

"I'm not sure," Alexsandr says. "It was either the most vivid hallucination I've ever had, or I've just been speaking with Kanan."

"You _what."_

"As clearly as if he were standing here, in the room," Alexsandr says. "An ability he learned from his master, he said. Using the Force."

Zeb stares at him, fragile hope and jealousy and denial and disbelief having a brief but furious scuffle in his mind before he settles on: "Banthashit."

"He said to tell you not to worry about the sheets," Alexsandr says. "He said you'd know what that meant." And it shouldn't be possible for his eyebrow to go any higher than it is already, but he manages, somehow, in response to Zeb's ears dropping, folding back against his skull. "It _does_ mean something to you," he says. "Doesn't it."

"That can't — how did — _nobody_ knew about that but Kanan."

"He chose well, then."

_"How is that possible."_

"I honestly haven't a clue. He gave me a message to pass to Hera. I'll need to write it down so I can tell her in the morning."

"The hell you will. If you've got a message for Hera, you're gonna deliver it to her _now."_

"It’s the middle of the night,” Alexsandr says.

“She ain’t gonna care,” Zeb says. _”I_ wouldn’t, if you’d gotten a message from Kanan for _me.”_

Alexsandr relents, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, well. It’s just that she's been through so much. I didn't want to upset her and rob her of a night's sleep."

"She won't mind for this," Zeb says, "And you can blame me if she does."

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Alexsandr says, trailing his hand across Zeb's belly as he moves to the foot of the bed, bending down to pull on his trousers.

_Author’s ruminations_

So ... am I a furry now? I don’t think I am, but that’s definitely not human/human smut happening up there, and I’m the one who wrote it, so ...

(Gonna get a shirt made that reads: ["Star Wars turned me into a f*cking furry,"](https://mistr3ssquickly.tumblr.com/post/641472147199590400/im-not-saying-id-order-this-shirt-but-im) see if I don't. Do I regret it? No. No I do not. Not even a little.)

I wrote out Kanan’s half of the conversation and then deleted it so you and Zeb both get left in the dark. I’d say I’m sorry but I’m really not. Oh! And all that adult-rated stuff I mentioned in a previous chapter I’d written and set aside to collect dust? Yeah didn't use any of it. Why? Because _they weren't doing it right,_ apparently. So I wrote a whole bunch of new smut and will put the other smut ... somewhere, I promise, because some of it is _actually my favorite thing maybe ever._ For real.

Of some note is the fact that this chapter marks over 50,000 words written of this particular story — a NaNo, in spirit, written in 25 days (I didn’t even need 30, what). Considering how very hard I struggled with my _actual_ NaNo this past November, this realization has me well salty, don’t doubt it for a second.

Finally, there’s a lot more Lyste written but he didn’t make it into this chapter beyond his appearance in the first bit, so please hang tight. His part of the story is coming soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one that deals with PTSD.
> 
> (Might be good for y’all to know that I don’t write deathfic, and hey look, Lyste is back! Hi, Lyste.)

**Brute Force**

_part ix_

Nighttime has evaporated by the time they’re returning to Alexsandr’s drab assigned quarters, both of them dragging, as wearied if they’d been on watch together for hours, not sitting in the galley of the _Ghost,_ talking to Hera. Wear _ier,_ perhaps, Zeb thinks as he strips out of his clothes and curls himself around Alexsandr, the daylight streaming in through the window bringing Alexsandr’s room too bright to be good for sleeping, but Zeb can feel the weight of sleep pulling at him all the same, Alexsandr motionless under him save for the rise-and-fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his fingers stroking Zeb’s upper arm. Maybe not as ready to surrender to sleep, Zeb thinks, but not poised to slip away for work or meditations, the comfort of him in Zeb’s arms as potent as a drug, easing the ache heavy in Zeb’s heart.

It’s near midday when they next pull themselves from bed, hunger and duty and Sabine’s quiet insistence that they show their faces at _some_ point during the day compelling them up and into their clothes, Alexsandr’s usual sweater and vest somehow brighter on him after the day he’s spent in his old garments, the color of them bringing out the brightness of his hair and fur, playing complement to his spots. A welcome contrast as brilliant as any of Sabine’s best work against the plain beige stone of Lothal, welcome against the harsh reds and blacks of the Imperial propaganda hovering over the streets like a slavering shadow.

“Looking forward to ripping all’a this down and burning it,” Zeb says as they walk together to the old Imperial intelligence building, the propaganda lining that particular street doubled, at least, from what it is in other parts of the city. “Damn eyesores, they are.”

“Where I agree,” Alexsandr says, “it seems a waste to have you doing manual labor. A man of your talents —”

“Eh, they’ll call me in if they need planning done,” Zeb says. “Right now, getting the city back to the point that it can be lived in is more important. And what’s the point’a having a big guy like me around if he doesn’t help clean up the Empire’s mess when he’s asked to?”

Alexsandr gives him a look that tells him he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue, either, bumping the back of his hand against Zeb’s before disappearing into Intelligence, the gesture warming Zeb’s chest, has a smile on his face as he retraces his steps, turning east to the worst-hit section of the city.

The work is, despite Alexsandr’s misgivings, exactly what he needs, dumb heavy labor with visible results, construction ‘droids leading the way, breaking up the largest chunks of stone and durasteel while Zeb and Rex and a team others their size follow along behind, chucking the pieces into the flatbed of a transport. A devaronian local joins them an hour in and lends a call-and-response song to their efforts, simple enough that most everyone joins in, the rhythm of the song marked by the bang and crash of the rubble, their voices blending and resting steady atop the hum of the ‘droids, the low rumble of the transport.

He doesn’t hear Sabine's jetpack over it all, at first, too caught up in the singing and the movement and the work, only notices her when one of the ‘droids calls a halt to the work, announcing _citizen present in work area, caution required,_ the hard set of Sabine’s expression and tears bright in her eyes dropping Zeb’s heart to the shattered stone at his feet as she crosses the courtyard to him. He’s seen that look on her face before, knows it as well as he knows his own heartbreak, fear winding its fingers up his veins, anchoring him in dread-filled stillness where he stands.

“What’s happened,” he says, curling his hands around Sabine’s shoulders the second she's disengaged her jetpack and landed.

“Someone shot Kallus,” she says, her voice scrubbing hard at the edges of the words, “I don’t know who. He’s still alive, but — Zeb, it doesn’t look good.”

_No._

“He’s at the east medical facility. They’re putting him in bacta now, but they sent me to get you in case — in case —”

_**No.** _

Zeb doesn't wait for her to finish, pulling his feet from the heavy, awful fear rooting him to the planet’s surface, his legs numb as they send him past Sabine, memory of the feel of her shoulders imprinted in his palms.

_This isn’t happening._

The streets stretch out long before him, the distance to the east medical facility mocking him, slipping impossibly far over the curve of the planet, his legs slow and clumsy under him, only the relentless pounding of his heart marking the seconds before he’s pushing through the front doors, following the sour stink of bacta to the emergency theatre. Alexsandr lies stretched out on a gurney on the wrong side of a wide pair of durasteel doors, a cluster of medi-droids buzzing around him like vlieg flies. They’ve got him stripped naked down to the waist, a breathing apparatus covering most of his face and a horrible starburst of blastershot spread across his belly and chest, staining all of his soft, ticklish places, erasing his spots.

_This **can’t** be happening._

Zeb distantly hears his own cry of anguish, reflected back onto him from the doors between him and his lover, the lock holding firm when he pulls at them, leaving him to stand impotent and helpless, watching the medics arrange Alexsandr in one of the bacta tanks, the panel at the base of the tank taking forever to register his vitals, and longer even than that to change from red to yellow, the insult of the severity of his injuries tearing at Zeb’s heart.

Movement catches his attention, pulling it away from Alexsandr for a breath, then longer when he recognizes Lyste, arms tight-crossed over his chest as he comes over to open the door for him, Zeb’s name tight in his mouth as Zeb pushes past him, crossing the six steps between him and the bacta tank, its duraplast surface smooth and cool under his hand. Alexsandr looks peaceful, floating as he is, his body bathed in pale light, the rich copper of his fur bleached almost to invisibility, his spots strangely dark by contrast. The machine breathing for him clicks at the apex of each inhalation, the movement of the bacta around him caressing him, moving his hair, suspending it like a halo around his head.

“What happened?” he says without taking his eyes from his lover.

“Imperial sympathizer,” Lyste says, his voice soft, falling away against the curve of the tank. “I think. He called him a traitor before he shot him.”

Zeb growls in answer, the way Lyste recoils as gratifying as it is painful. “Where’s the bastard now,” he says.

“Dead,” Lyste says. “I killed him. But not fast enough.” His voice crumbles a little around the words, hurt plain in his tone. “He took us by surprise. Came into Intelligence with information, he said. We didn't even see the blaster until he'd fired. Didn’t see it in time." He swallows, lifting his hand and resting it against the tank's smooth surface, a tear tumbling from his eyelashes, joining the streaks already shiny on his face. "I would have taken the shot for him, if I could have. I wish I had.”

Zeb looks away from him, too many emotions for him to hope to name digging their fingers into his heart, making it ache. He turns his attention to the medi-droid attending to the tank instead, its apathy in the face of whatever expression he's giving it small relief. “Tell me he's gonna make it."

“Seventy-three percent chance of full recovery,” the medi-droid answers him, “point-zero-five chance of debilitation related to the injuries sustained. Three-point-two percent chance of complications related to treatment.”

“Seventy-three ain’t good enough,” Zeb tells it. “Can’t you do anything to get that number up higher?”

“All appropriate efforts have been taken. The patient will continue treatment,” the ‘droid answers, its flat tone unruffled even when Zeb bares his teeth at it.

“I’m staying with him,” Zeb tells no one in particular, the fight he’s tensed to win not coming, the room quiet but for the whir of the immersion tank, the quiet murmuring of the medic as he clears away Alexsandr’s clothes and strips the gurney, readying it for the next poor bastard who comes in with a blastershot to the belly. Lyste sticks around as well, occasionally casting a wary, worried look Zeb’s way, but focusing on Alexsandr for the most part, picking at one of the cuticles of his left hand until it starts to bleed, then switching to another finger, picking at it until it’s raw as well, the pungent stink of his blood mixing with the smell of bacta into a cocktail that has Zeb’s stomach pushing itself up his throat. He puts up with it a few minutes more, then reaches over and pulls at Lyste's wrist, meeting startled resistance, Lyste looking at him like he'd forgotten he was there.

"Ripping up your hands ain't gonna do him any good," Zeb says, releasing him. "Go clean yourself up. You're bleeding."

Lyste looks down at his hands, mumbling an apology as he stuffs them into his pockets, his feet rooted obstinately where he's been standing, his shoulders squared as he resumes his vigil. Ridiculous but earnest enough that Zeb leaves him be, returning his attention to his lover, worry winding its tendrils deep in his heart.

He's gone near numb from standing when the medi-droid minding the tank comes by and begins to drain it, the medic on duty easing Alexsandr onto a gurney and covering him with a blanket straight away, Alexsandr’s eyes fluttering as he’s wheeled to the other end of the room, his throat working as he swallows. He doesn’t look like he’s focusing very well when Zeb comes over to his bedside, blinking sluggishly as the medic examines him, murmuring an inquisitive sound as he looks from the medic to Zeb.

"Well?" Zeb says.

"He's no longer in critical condition," the medic says, "but he's not yet won the battle."

"Fix him," Zeb says, desperation coming back with renewed force, aching and awful. "Please, make him better."

The medic looks at him, his expression awful with pity, as fatherly as Kanan ever was, and that hurts, too. "I'll do what I can," he says.

He sends them away after that, banishing Zeb and Lyste both once again to the no-man's-land outside the surgical theatre, Alexsandr just beyond where Zeb can see him from the doors, the equipment the medi-droid brings over to the far edge of the surgery ominous and medieval to Zeb’s eyes, worry spreading roots up through his entire being, prayers he’s not recited since he was a kit surfacing across the noise of his thoughts, desperate and manic. Lyste stands at his side, silent and still, his hands out of his pockets and nails pulling at his cuticles again until the smell of his blood catches Zeb’s attention, Lyste giving him a guilty look when he notices Zeb looking at him.

"He's going to be all right," he says, putting his hands back in their pockets where they belong.

"Yeah."

"They got him into bacta fast enough. He'll be all right."

"Yeah."

Lyste swallows, reaching up to pull at his own fur, a better nervous habit than tearing himself to pieces, so Zeb leaves it be.

“He wouldn’t have survived this, as part of the Empire, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice quiet, thoughtful. “They wouldn’t have even tried.”

A shiver winds down Zeb's spine, as cold as any hatred he's ever felt. “So I’ve heard."

“They ruined his leg like that,” Lyste continues. “Has he told you about it? Had to go to surgery three times, and the Empire gave its blessing for only one of those times. The others he had to have done on neutral worlds, or Imperial-sympathetic worlds.” He darts a glance at Zeb. "I’m sure you’ve seen the scar.”

Zeb’s ears twitch. “Didn’t know he had to have it done privately.”

“That’s how it works. You get one shot at anything — promotion, healing, victory — and after that, you’re on your own. Everyone knows it, but no one talks about it. Especially not the recruiters."

"Wouldn't meet their quota if they did," Zeb says.

"They tell you all sorts of things when you’re new," Lyste says, pulling at his fur some more. "They told us we’d be well cared-for, if we enlisted. They told us we’d be valued members of the Imperial allegiance. Especially as officers. They said our superiors would guard us jealously, that we would have the honor of caring for our ‘troopers in return,” he says. “And we believed them. _I_ believed them. Every word they said.” He rests one of his hands on the door, palm flat and finger bloodied. “Until him. And, I suppose, until _you.”_

“You’re welcome, I guess.”

"He saved me. And he didn't even know he was doing it," Lyste says, upset choking his throat once again. He’s quiet a moment, palpably wrangling himself back under control, his voice soft and hurting as he says, “It would kill me to lose him.”

Zeb curls his fingers into his palms, relishing the ache of his injured finger, desperate distraction. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

— — —

The shadows from the street outside have stretched long into the medical center by the time he’s allowed back at Alexsandr’s side, no hint of what the medic’s done to him visible where he’s covered once again in a thick blanket, only a tube of intravenous fluids snaking up from under the blanket to the drip hanging at the head of the bed indicating that he’s any different than he was when they pulled him from the tanks. He stirs a little when Zeb sits at his bedside and touches him, stroking one of his fingers down Alexsandr’s fur. Blinks sluggishly at Zeb when he manages to get his eyes open and head tipped to the side, his hair a riotous mess against the thin pillow, its rich color bleached under the bare lights overhead.

“Hey there,” Zeb says, keeping his voice low.

 _“Hi,”_ Alexsandr says on an exhale.

“How’re you feeling?”

Alexsandr’s brow furrows. “Not ... good,” he says after giving it some serious thought, “though neither do I feel bad.” He lifts his arm, frowning at the IV line stemming from the port in the crook of his arm. “I feel — very little. By design, I suspect.”

“Probably for the best,” Zeb says. He looks up at the medi-droid tidying away a tray of surgical tools, does his best _not_ to think too hard about the fact that they're dark with what is likely Alexsandr’s blood. “What’s the prognosis?” he asks it.

“Ninety-seven percent chance of full recovery,” the ‘droid says, “point-zero-four chance of debilitation related to injuries sustained. Seven-point-four percent chance of complications related to treatment.”

“Better’n it was last time I asked, at least,” Zeb grumbles, returning his attention to Alexsandr.

Alexsandr blinks at him. “Where am I?”

“East medical facility on Lothal,” Zeb tells him.

“Lothal. Yes, of course.” Alexsandr frowns, looking at Zeb with the sort of intensity he usually reserves for their sparring matches. “Did the medic send for you?”

Zeb shakes his head. “Nah. Sabine came and found me, told me you were hurt. I’ve been here since.”

“Oh.” Alexsandr’s frown deepens. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. You’re — you’re _very_ nice to look at. I like your fur, especially.”

Zeb _feels_ his brain halt. “Um.”

“Is that ... strange?” Alexsandr says, managing after what looks like a bit of a struggle to free his hand from the blanket, reaching over himself to drag his fingers down Zeb’s forearm, tracing the darker stripes with his fingertips. “Am I allowed to like your fur?”

It takes longer than it should for Zeb to put together what’s happening, pity rising past the soul-wringing fear he’s been keeping at bay for the long hours of the day. Alexsandr is obviously drugged, drugged out of his wits, and that’s left him confused and uninhibited, none of his usual stiff control governing him, which Zeb would have expected to be endearing, had he ever considered it, or entertaining at very least, but now that it’s presented before him, it’s just sad, the proud, strong man he loves reduced to such a raw, vulnerable state, clumsily stroking Zeb’s arm and slurring his words.

He covers Alexsandr's hand with his own, squeezing gently. “Nothing wrong with that,” he says, Alexsandr’s fingers moving under his palm, still, doing their best to pet him. “You’ve been through it today. Should probably try to get some rest. Sleep all this off.”

“I think I’d rather look at you,” Alexsandr mumbles sleepily. “You’re lasat, aren’t you?”

“Last I checked, yeah.”

“Are you an angel?”

Zeb chuckles, resisting the overwhelming urge to lift Alexsandr’s hand to his mouth and kiss it, hyper-aware of Lyste standing just over his shoulder, watching and listening. “Far from it.”

“Are you sure? I thought — there was a battle, on Lasan. The Empire, they — _we_ — killed —”

“Not all of us,” Zeb says. “Far from that, too.”

Alexsandr wiggles his hand free and sets it atop Zeb’s, stroking the fine fur there. “Good,” he says. “I — I thought — they _told_ us we —” He shakes his head, as if that might make his thoughts fall into place. From the way he’s frowning, it doesn't work. “You’re ... alive, though, aren’t you?”

“I am, yeah.”

“You’re _beautiful.”_

Zeb’s ears flatten, awkward embarrassment and flatter wriggling up through him.

 _“And_ your ears are cute.”

 _Cute_ isn’t a word Zeb usually hears assigned to himself, the term better-suited to someone like Sabine, maybe Lyste. Small creatures. He chuckles, awkward, capturing Alexsandr’s hand once again when Alexsandr reaches out, apparently intent on touching his ears. “Maybe save that for later, all right?” he says.

Alexsandr — _pouts,_ at that, there's no other word for it, his lower lip sticking out and everything, but he relents, entertaining himself once again with stroking Zeb’s arm, the pout blessedly melting into a dazed expression of contentment, the wrinkles between his brows smoothing, settling into the relaxed expression he usually wears only when he’s deeply asleep, no dreams interrupting his rest. He moves his touch higher after a minute, following the lines of Zeb’s stripes up to the curve of his bicep, his touch light, just the right side of ticklish. A little intimate, given the medic standing nearby, Lyste hovering just at Zeb’s other elbow, but it’s nothing Zeb can’t live with, and Alexsandr seems happy, so — 

“Do you have a mate?” Alexsandr wants to know, breaking the silence.

Zeb’s ears curl back. “Uh.”

“That’s what lasat call it, isn’t it? When you have a — a partner. A mate.”

“Nah. That’s a, uh —” It’s an outdated, racist term, one he’s not entirely surprised Alexsandr knows, but hearing him use it is still deeply uncomfortable. “Don’t say that,” he settles on, quietly. “We don’t call it that.”

“You don’t?”

“Nah. Empire came up with that one. Ain’t a term we use.”

“Oh. Then ... are you married?” Alexsandr wants to know. “Or ... seeing someone?”

Zeb casts a desperate look over his shoulder, hoping against all hope that Lyste has gotten distracted by something shiny and wandered away. He hasn’t, of course, and the way he’s looking at them, all big blue eyes and heartbreak shining from him like a holoprojection ...

“Y’might want to just be quiet for a while, Alexsandr,” Zeb says. “You’re drugged. Gonna have a bit to live down already once you’re sober.”

“Is _he_ your mate?” Alexsandr says, looking past Zeb’s shoulder to Lyste.

Zeb follows his line of sight, sighing at the look of heartbroken _horror_ on Lyste’s face. “No,” he says, returning his attention to the drugged man looking up at him with earnest curiosity, the hand that had been petting him stilled, clinging gently to his upper arm.

“I am relieved to hear that. Though I doubt you'd allow me touching you like this, if he were.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

“I _like_ touching you. You’re soft.”

“Thanks, I think.”

 _“Really_ soft.”

Zeb captures his hand, this time giving in to the temptation to kiss it, rubbing his face across the backs of Alexsandr’s fingers, just because he can, earning a happy little sigh for his troubles, Alexsandr uncurling his fingers to touch, stroking the long hairs along the line of Zeb’s jaw.

“I liked the way you said my name,” he says when keeping his hand up at Zeb’s cheek proves too much for him, dropping it with a soft _flumph_ onto the blanket tucked around him. _“Alexsandr._ Nobody calls me that.”

“That’s true. Just me.”

“What’s your name?” he wants to know.

“It’s Zeb.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Thanks.”

“I think you might be the — the most attractive creature I’ve ever seen.” The hand’s back, this time going to Zeb’s chest, the warmth of it slow to seep through his jumpsuit. “Is that — can I say that?”

“If you want to, yeah.”

“Thank you,” Alexsandr slurs, his hand drifting across Zeb’s chest, landing again on his forearm. He doesn’t seem to mind, happy enough to resume tracing the stripes there with his fingers. “Are you — would you consider — with a human, I mean, would you — I would very much like to get to know you better. If you'd be amenable to the idea.”

Zeb chuckles around the desperate warmth gathering in his chest. "Little late for that," he says. "We burned that bridge a while ago."

"Burned —?"

"Might'a got that expression wrong," Zeb says. "Been more'n just friends for a while, is what I'm saying. You and me."

Alexsandr's eyes go perfectly round, his eyebrows pushing his surprise well up past the hair draped limp across his forehead. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"We — you and I —" He looks up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling along the struggle he's clearly having to wrap his mind around the notion. He's frowning when he looks at Zeb again, his neck straining as he lifts his head from the pillow. "Have we kissed?"

Lasat don't blush — that's a human thing — and Zeb finds he's never been gladder for it. "Yeah, we have."

Alexsandr flops back into the pillow, his mouth open a little. "Wow," he says. "Then I seem to have hit the _jackpot."_ He turns to look at Zeb again, reaching for him. "Lemme see your face."

Zeb leans in obediently, closing his eyes as Alexsandr touches him, as gentle as he's ever been, the feel of his hands a blessing, even sour with the smell of bacta as they are.

“You’re really very soft," Alexsandr sighs, his hand drifting back to the downy fur under Zeb's ear, his touch so gentle it makes Zeb _ache,_ his eyes slipping closed as he sinks into the feel of it. "Have you felt his fur? It’s soft.”

Speaking over Zeb's shoulder, Zeb realizes when he opens his eyes, to Lyste, who takes half a step back, clasping his hands behind him as he does.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Mm. Soft.” Alexsandr's eyelids droop, heavy over his eyes, his hand faltering a little where he’s stroking Zeb’s arm. Zeb slides his hand carefully up, wrapping it around Alexsandr’s and moving it back under the blanket.

“You should try t’get some sleep,” he says when Alexsandr looks at him, earnest against the sleep gathering at the corners of his eyes, weighing his eyelids, his eyelashes bright under the overhead lights. “Let the drugs do their work.”

“I feel very strange,” Alexsandr says, closing his eyes, “but it’s better with you here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Zeb tells him, squeezing his hand.

“M’kay,” Alexsandr says, his eyes closing and, after a few flutters, staying that way.

Zeb leaves his hand where it is, the warmth of Alexsandr’s hand blending with his own body-heat after only a few seconds, the rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathes a comfort, keeping the twist of his stomach down in his belly where it belongs. Lyste, for his part, keeps his distance until Alexsandr has been asleep long enough to stay that way, his posture wary as he comes closer and sits at Zeb's side, his mouth set in a firm line, maybe turned down ever so slightly at the corners, his shoulders folded forward, making him look smaller even than he is. He's still for all of two minutes before he moves as if he'll touch Alexsandr, only hesitating a second before following through, resting his palm over Alexsandr's shoulder, dragging his thumb up and down in a soothing pattern, barely disturbing the blanket.

"He loves you," he says, softly, "doesn't he."

"Seems to be the shape'a things, yeah."

"I'm glad. He deserves it. To be happy."

"Yeah."

"He was the best of the best, you know," Lyste says. "Top of his class at the Academy, rose through the ranks faster than most. We used to joke that death would have to come for him in his sleep, because otherwise there would be a fight." His voice wobbles a little on the words, curved fondly along his sad smile. "He was larger-than-life. Untouchable. Even — _especially_ — after he defected, outwitting the Grand Admiral, saving the Rebellion. To see him like this ..."

He draws a shaking breath that seems to take him apart in an instant, his shoulders shuddering and head bowed, painfully controlled even in his grief. He recoils when Zeb reaches out and gets a good grip on his shoulder, tense as if he expects to be struck, but Zeb persists, pulling Lyste towards himself, the years he’s spent with Alexsandr warming to him and the others having taught him time and again that Imperials aren’t conditioned to trust kindness, the lot of them wary in the face of any sort of empathy. He's pleased when Lyste at least recognizes inevitability and relents without too much of a struggle, leaning awkwardly into Zeb's arms, shaking so hard once Zeb's got him close enough to feel him trembling that it's small wonder he was able to resist as well as he did.

— — —

They stay at Alexsandr’s side well into the evening, leaving only when the medic who comes on shift calls Security to escort them out, two of Lyste’s defectors showing up as part of the summoned squad, awkward but sympathetic to their friend's plight, coaxing him away with the promise of food and alcohol, one of them gently teasing him about the red state of his nose, his eyes swollen still, despite the time passed since he last cried.

“Hope you didn’t let Kallus see you in such a state,” one of them — Modig, Zeb thinks his name was — says. “You’ll never live it down if you did.”

Lyste chuckles weakly, darting a glance Zeb’s way before shaking his head. “No,” he says, “I don’t think he knew I was there.”

“Lucky for you,” Modig says, clapping him on the back, his hand staying on Lyste’s shoulder after, steering him to the door. Friendly in an ex-Stormtrooper kind of way, probably exactly what Lyste needs to put his mind at ease, Zeb thinks, homesickness for Kanan and his tendency to show affection with touch an unwelcome weight in his chest, the empty street beyond the medical center yawning around him, breathing loneliness against his toes.

Touch against his arm draws him from his thoughts, Lyste’s hand at his elbow gentle; a surprise. “You’re coming with us, aren’t you?” Lyste says. “You haven’t had anything to eat, either.”

“Nah, I’m all right,” Zeb says.

The hand on his elbow tightens. “Please.”

Which is how he ends up seated at a table in one of the smaller pubs on Lothal with two ex-Stormtroopers, a former Imperial lieutenant, and a local from the northern part of the city seated around him, along with a bowl of frankly incredible-smelling stew and a blessedly large pint of local brew, the mug it's served in sweating the evening’s humidity in a ring on the table’s surface. “To Alexsandr Kallus,” Modig says, lifting his own pint. “May he live to glare at the galaxy for decades yet to come.”

The others raise their mugs, echoing Alexsandr’s name, and drink. It’s a decent stout, the flavor of it dragging a shiver down Zeb’s spine.

“To Lyste, here, too,” Zeb says, raising his mug again. “For shooting that shit-sucking sonuvahutt dead.”

“Here here,” says the local man, knocking his mug against Zeb’s, hard enough that Zeb’s honestly kind of surprised that neither breaks.

“We’re going to have to put in place security measures to make sure no one else tries what he tried,” Lyste says, a minute or two later. “Assuming Kallus will be willing to come back, once he’s well.”

“Good luck keeping him away,” Zeb says, worry reaching up to jostle the beer and stew he’s just gotten into his stomach.

“Isn’t as simple as securing Intelligence, either,” Modig says. “Just because that’s where one simp found him, doesn’t mean the next one won’t find him somewhere else. Man’s got to eat, sleep, and train somewhere.”

“I’ll kill them all,” Lyste says, his voice soft but deadly serious, as venomous as any threat Zeb’s ever heard. “Anyone who threatens him. They’re as good as dead.”

He probably thinks he means it, Zeb thinks as he eats, letting the conversation carry him away on its easy current, Lyste’s brothers all obviously determined to keep his mind off the day he’s had, and doing a decent job it it, at that, Lyste’s mood lightening considerably by the time he’s finishing his second mug of beer, some of the color returned to his cheeks, his smile small but real, creasing the edges of his eyes. They’ve got Zeb feeling better by extension by the time he’s saying goodnight to the pack of them, the loneliness in his chest as he watches them stumble off together present still but bearable, the evening air turning curious circles around his ankles pleasant company in itself as he retraces his steps back to the east medical facility, free in the solitude of his walk to replay Alexsandr’s earlier affections towards him, his heart full with it, aching in all the best ways in his chest.

Alexsandr is awake when he reaches the facility, sitting up straight and still while a medi-droid inspects him, enough control written into the lines around his eyes and mouth that it’s no surprise he doesn’t hear Zeb coming in, the way his frown loosens into a look of relief, just for a second, as sweet a balm as any ointment the medic on duty could possibly prescribe.

“I thought I sent you away,” the medic says, emerging from the bacta tanks, a human Zeb doesn’t recognize floating in one, no injuries readily visible enough for him to guess what might have happened to the poor bastard.

“Y’did. And now I’m back,” Zeb says. “Wanted to see how things’re going.”

“Well enough,” the medic says. She takes the datapad the ‘droid hands her and skims it. “How are you feeling?” she says to Alexsandr.

“Functional,” Alexsandr answers.

“That lines up with what the ‘droid thinks about you, too,” the medic says. “If I had my druthers, you’d stay here the night for observation, but we’re short of beds and got a patient who could use yours, so —”

She nearly drops the datapad when Alexsandr takes _that_ as suggestion to clear out of his bed _now,_ only Zeb stepping in to stop him saving the datapad from a swift demise, the medic’s expression a combination of surprise and indignation that might have, in another moment, been funny, but to Zeb, arms full of injured, annoyed human, the smell of bacta and blood coming off of him in waves ...

“I’ll assume you have someplace to go with someone who will look after you,” the medic says, giving Zeb a Look.

“I do, yes.”

“Then do us all a favor and _stay put_ while I start the discharge process,” the medic says. _“Humans,_ I swear to _god ...”_

Twenty minutes later, Alexsandr is remanded into Zeb’s custody.

They take a hover-cab back to Alexsandr’s assigned quarters, Alexsandr leaning into Zeb to save his abdomen from unnecessary strain, his hands clutching the bag of antibiotics and painkillers the medic gave him, hard enough to sallow his knuckles, speaking to the discomfort he’s feeling despite Zeb’s arm around him, the hover-cab driver taking it easy around all the turns. He endures Zeb helping him up the stairs to his room without complaint, only relaxing once they’re inside, his steps short and careful as he crosses to the bed and sits, his hand resting protectively over his belly, breath coming short.

“I smell terrible,” he says, wrinkling his nose as he gives himself a sniff. “Should wash before sleeping here. I’ll make the bedding smell, otherwise.”

“Could get a bowl’a water and wipe you down, if you like,” Zeb says. “Don’t think you should be standing around in a water-shower in your current state.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Alexsandr says, “though I wouldn’t mind having company while I bathe, if you’d care to join me.”

“Yeah, all right,” Zeb says, reluctance tugging against each syllable. “Long as it’s quick.”

It is, but Alexsandr’s overestimated his own stamina by a significant margin, his skin going pale enough under the warmth of the water that Zeb knows he’s about to faint before it happens, has his hands on the man when Alexsandr breathes his name like a warning and loses consciousness, crumpling into Zeb’s grasp in a barely controlled spill of limbs. Zeb gathers him into his arms and kicks the benches lining the wall into a long enough surface for him to set Alexsandr down, stable and flat, while he fetches a towel to dry him, only drying his own face and hands and arms when he notices he’s dripping on his lover.

“This might not’a been a good idea after all,” he tells Alexsandr when the man stirs, wincing as he tries to sit up.

“I agree.”

“Let me dry you off, then we’ll get some painkillers int'a you,” Zeb says, working the towel down one of Alexsandr’s legs, then the other. His feet are _tiny_ compared to a lasat’s, tipped with short little toes. No different from the other humans Zeb’s known, not disproportionately small, but — _small,_ all the same. Dwarfed under the size of the scar twisting down his thigh, which Zeb’s never really paid attention to, before, its existence always an ever-present reminder of Alexsandr’s fragility, but now ...

Alexsandr doesn’t object to being carried back to his room, shivering a little in Zeb’s arms — _just chilled from the shower, I’m all right,_ he says — until Zeb’s got him in bed and brought him a clean undershirt and pair of shorts. He dresses himself slowly, and with difficulty, stumbling a little as he stands to pull back the blanket and lie down, his mouth a tight, thin line once he’s managed, his face pale, stark in contrast to the dark color of the bedding.

Zeb brings him a dose of painkillers, has to help him sit up to take them and drink some water, and it’s only after he’s helped Alexsandr lie back down that it occurs to him that he didn’t check the painkillers first, didn’t see the medic portioning them out, the conversation among Lyste and his men earlier slamming back into his conscious mind with the force of an explosion. This could be another attempt on Alexsandr’s life, could be poison, poison _he_ handed to the man, helped him swallow. An easy way to kill him, as weak as he is, busy as the medical centers within reach have been since the attack, and — 

He _feels_ himself break, fracturing along the sound of Alexsandr saying his name like a question, all of the everything he’s held back since Sabine came to find him shattering and spilling out at Alexsandr’s feet, a sound he doesn’t even recognize as his own voice struggling up his throat, Alexsandr’s body-heat small comfort as he kneels by the bed and presses his forehead to the scar on Alexsandr’s thigh, an agonized sob tearing up from his belly. He clings to his lover like a kit, the enormity of it all spilling out of him like blood, the loss and hurt and fear and pain of Kanan and Ezra and Alexsandr all flooding across his shoulders and back, so much that he can hardly breathe through it, the room spinning around him no matter how hard he clings to his lover — too hard, he thinks, the terror of hurting the fragile, precious man lying before him lancing through him like a blaster sh— _no,_ not that, anything but that, his throat closing in on itself, his lungs burning as his world cracks and crumbles around him, shaking him hard enough to take him apart from his very core.

“Garazeb.” Alexsandr’s voice is close and firm, his breath warm against the upper edge of Zeb’s ear. _“Zeb._ Breathe. _Please.”_

Zeb tries, his desperation only tightening the grasp at his throat, nausea rocking through him as he struggles against his own body, the room moving under him, falling away and shrinking in with each gasp he manages, his heart pounding, shaking him, his fingers and toes too full from the jarring push of each heartbeat for him to grip the floor or the bed, his balance tipping, as uncontrolled as he was when Alexsandr ripped him out of the path of the electricity arcing through the shield generator, and _gods_ that is the last thing he needs to be thinking about, the power coils bending under his weight, threatening to drop him to his death, the vicious creature swatting at him promising pain and death for him and everyone he loves, and —

Alexsandr moves under him, grunting in pain, his hand coming down to cup the line of Zeb’s jaw, his fingertips pressed close to the wild cadence of Zeb’s pulse, giving it something steady to beat against.

“Focus on my hand, Zeb,” he says, his voice soft but his tone commanding, catching like claws under the roar of panic. “Can you feel it?”

Zeb can — those beautiful hands, large for a human, and clever, the hands he’s known so intimately, strong and fierce when they spar together, gentle when they lie together in bed. Brushing against his own whenever there are others around, the bare touch their own secret language, shared just between them. Shaking still from the trauma of the blastershot, from the bacta and the surgery and the drugs, the uncertainty of the day mixing with the faint remnants of bacta still clinging to Alexsandr’s skin and fur, the memory of the surgical tools dark with Alexsandr’s blood —

_“Garazeb.”_

He can’t breathe, the day pressing itself against his face, suffocating him, crushing him under the enormity of his own impotence, sitting like a useless lump at Alexsandr’s bedside, and if he hadn’t made it, if he’d —

Alexsandr’s hands slide back, thumbs pressing at the base of Zeb’s ears. “Come back to me, Garazeb,” he says, and that’s his mission voice, strong and commanding. “I need you to focus. Take control of it.”

He won’t fail again. Not _again._ Not like he failed his people, his family. Kanan. Ezra.

“Focus on my hands, Garazeb. Can you feel them?”

Zeb nods, the motion making Alexsandr’s hands move under his ears. Not stroking him, holding too tightly for that, but they're there all the same. 

“Good. And the floor beneath your knees. You can feel that as well, yes?”

Zeb nods again, the room dipping along the motion this time, his stomach rolling along the floor, lifting into his throat as it does. He sucks in a thin breath around it, the air hot and sticky where he’s been panting, humid from the lingering shower-water damp on Alexsandr’s thighs.

“Can you smell me?” Alexsandr says, and that’s — that’s _wrong,_ humans don’t process scent like lasat do, always covering up the natural smell of their bodies with perfumes and soaps, nothing quite like the musky scent of Alexsandr's skin, his fur. Zeb leans into the feel of Alexsandr’s hand against his face, drawing what breath he can through his nose, the smell of the plain soap in the communal ‘fresher assaulting him as he does, an unwelcome undertone of bacta trailing along under it. No hint of Alexsandr’s familiar scent underneath, no matter how desperately he wants to find it.

He shakes his head. Alexsandr moves his hand forward, stroking Zeb’s cheek.

“That’s all right. Focus on what you _can_ smell. The soap from the 'fresher. Surely you can smell that. I can.” He shifts, his ruined thigh muscle flexing and shifting under Zeb’s forehead, soft and vulnerable. Exposed. “Keep breathing. I’m here. And I’m fine, if a bit weak yet.”

 _“Fine,”_ Zeb echoes, his voice scraping gravel over stone, painful in his throat. His face hurts, salt stinging when he sits up and drags the back of his hand across his face. His heart’s squirming abysmally in his chest, his stomach rolling over his supper with the very real threat of mutiny still.

Alexsandr’s hands tense along the line of his jaw, drawing his face up so that he has no choice but to look the man in the eye. “Are you back with me?”

Zeb tries to nod, the motion making him queasy still, so he stops and says, instead, “Think so." He swallows, his body slow to come back to him, crumpled ridiculously in the floor, his head in Alexsandr's lap, ears pulling at the blankets. Exposing him. He sits up a little and worries the blanket, putting it back where it belongs as best he can, which isn't very well. "Sorry ‘bout all that.”

"Nothing I haven't seen — and experienced first-hand myself — before," Alexsandr says. He rests his hand atop Zeb's head, just heavy enough to be grounding, taking it back only when Zeb raises his head, and Zeb saves himself from the frown on Alexsandr’s mouth by climbing up into the bed properly and kissing him, closing his eyes once again as he presses their foreheads together, only the feel of Alexsandr touching him keeping him from crumbling away completely.

“I'm so sorry,” Alexsandr says, his hands coming up to rest on Zeb's upper arms, holding fast.

 _He_ should be the one reassuring Alexsandr that he has nothing to be sorry for, Zeb thinks, but all that comes out when he opens his mouth is another sob, Alexsandr pulling him close, the bed grumbling complaints as they wrap up in one another, Zeb covering Alexsandr with his own body as best he can, his thighs shaking under the strain of keeping him from crushing the man beneath him. The room yawns around them, big and empty and exposed, Zeb's ears pricking at the sound of a 'speeder going by outside, audible even though the closed window. He didn't lock the door when they came back from the 'fresher, his hands full with carrying Alexsandr, and there's nothing in the way of security minding the front desk, no one like Lyste or Modig checking who's coming in, or if they're armed, and —

"Garazeb. Breathe."

Zeb obediently sucks in a breath, pushing himself off of Alexsandr and out of the bed.

"We can't stay here," he says, grabbing his clothes and pulling them on. "Ain't safe."

Alexsandr pushes himself up, wincing at the effort. "Zeb —"

“My bunk on the _Ghost_ is better,” Zeb says. “Safer there, ‘case someone gets the idea to finish what the bastard started earlier.”

“I doubt very much that —”

_“Please.”_

Alexsandr closes his mouth, the look of pity pulling at his face twisting something cold and sharp under Zeb's skin, his pride ripping around it, bleeding shame into every frayed nerve-ending, but before he can say anything to defend himself Alexsandr sighs and says, “Very well. Help me dress, please.”

— — —

The painkillers have done their job by the time Zeb's helping him down the stairs to the lobby, Alexsandr moving stiffly but steadily, able to climb into the hover-cab with only a bit of help. Zeb’s ears prick at every breath of breeze that cuts across their path as they travel out to the port where the _Ghost_ is berthed, his arms tight-coiled and ready for a fight, fear a solid stone in his stomach by the time they reach the _Ghost_ and step inside, the security protocols Zeb re-engages behind them more a comfort than they’ve ever been before. Hera meets them halfway to his bunk, her hands immediately going to Alexsandr, eyes bright with worry until Zeb’s reassured her that everything’s fine.

“Just feels safer, sleeping here,” he says.

“It does,” Hera agrees. “How are you feeling, Kallus?”

“Steadily improving,” Alexsandr says.

“Good. I was so worried,” Hera says, giving his upper arm a squeeze. “Rest. _Both_ of you. I'm here if you need anything.”

“Yes ma’am,” they both say in unison, and the smile they earn from Hera for it is as beautiful as it is heart-breaking.

Zeb's bunk is no different from the way it's been all the countless nights he and Alexsandr have slept there together, Sabine's bright paintings and Ezra's mismatched collection of trinkets warming the dull durasteel, the mattress as flat and narrow as ever, but it _feels_ different, like a forgotten shrine Zeb isn't supposed to intrude, for all that that's exactly what he does, leaving his jumpsuit in a messy heap in his hurry to lie down with his lover, Alexsandr's sigh of relief as they settle against each other simple and sweet; a comfort.

“Thanks," Zeb says, "for, ah. Letting me being weird about sleeping here.”

“It’s better here than in my room,” Alexsandr says.

“Yeah, I meant more the —”

“It’s fine,” Alexsandr says. “I’m sorry for you having gone through it, but —” He slides his hand up Zeb’s arm, pulling him to lie even more on top of him than he was already. “We’re all right. All of us.”

“Yeah.”

"I don't suppose it would be comfort to know that I've been shot before and survived, would it?"

Zeb chuckles softly, the sound bordering a little too closely on hysterical. "Not even a little."

"Mm. Then please, forget I said anything."

 _That_ isn't likely to happen, but Zeb keeps that to himself. "Gonna have to find out who the bastard was who shot you today," he says. "Your number one admirer was talking earlier about —"

"My what?"

"Lyste," Zeb says. 

"Oh. Garazeb, honestly."

"He was saying earlier that he and the others're gonna tighten up security around the Intelligence pool, but if we don't know who the bastard was or why he singled you out —"

"I do," Alexsandr says. _"Did._ Know him, that is."

Zeb frowns, pushing himself up enough to look down at him. "Yeah?"

“Mm. He was my lover, back when I’d first been assigned to Lothal,” Alexsandr says. “It’s been years ago, now. I hardly even recognized him when he came in. Until he spoke. His voice was familiar to me.”

Zeb turns his words over a few times, letting them sink in like claws. "Oh."

Alexsandr sighs through his nose. "Surely you aren't jealous."

"Of a man you kriffed and forgot about after?" Zeb says. "No. Worried who might come back to finish what he started —"

"I doubt there's anyone interested in doing such a thing," Alexsandr says. "He was something of a loner, as you might imagine an Imperial sympathetic would be. He spied on his neighbors and gathered what information he thought would be of value, as he was able. Never anything we didn’t already know, but he seemed to enjoy the work."

“Sounds like a real catch,” Zeb grumbles. Alexsandr chuckles, turning his head to press a kiss to Zeb’s bicep.

“It was little more than sex between us. Very transactional,” he says. “I’d honestly not thought about him in so long I’d all but forgotten about it. A foolish oversight on my part; he could have done far more damage than simply killing _me."_

“Don’t,” Zeb says, a shadow of the earlier tightness crawling up his chest to his throat once again. “Don’t say that. He could’a — I thought —”

Alexsandr kisses his arm again, rubbing against it a little before stilling, resting his cheek against it. “It’s all right, Zeb. I’m fine.”

“Wish I’d gotten to kill him myself.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Alexsandr says into his fur. “He’s gone, and we’ll find soon enough if there are others like him.”

Zeb lies back down and wraps his arms around him, lowering his head so that he can nose at Alexsandr’s hair, the warmth trapped among the strands making up for the lingering smell of bacta, the feel of Alexsandr sinking into his embrace, his legs tangled with Zeb’s, his hands gripping Zeb’s arms just enough for him to feel them, holding him, anchoring him, keeping the shrieks of fear at the edges of his consciousness, present but distant enough that he can still breathe past them.

“That ain’t a job for you to do,” he says.

“Mm.”

“I’m serious. It ain’t safe.”

“Agreed, though it's hardly safe for anyone.”

“For _you,”_ Zeb says. “Ain't like you're unmemorable, y'know. Big for a human, good looking." He lifts his hand to touch Alexsandr's hair. "Unusually colorful."

Alexsandr snorts softly, leaning into his touch. "Who will do the work, if not me?"

"Lyste comes to mind."

"He _is_ competent and capable, and eager to prove himself," Alexsandr says, "but it would be poor form for me to put all of that responsibility on his shoulders when I'm perfectly capable of —"

"That's my point. You ain't capable, not when you're — look, I love you, but you were the bastard who put the locals under his thumb, here, and now you're the bastard who switched sides and betrayed the Empire," Zeb says, his temper pushing the words from his tongue with no thought behind them to cushion their fall. "That asshole today got the drop on you when you had a group'a soldiers around to show him what a bad idea _that_ was, but the next one —"

 _"If_ there's a next one," Alexsandr puts in.

"You'n I both know there will be, eventually, and I can't —" Zeb presses his face against Alexsandr's chest, breathing in the warmth of him, his scent just barely present where the smell of soap has started to wane, the curls of his fur a comfort against Zeb's face. "I can't lose you. I've lost enough people I've loved. I ain't losing you, too." 

Alexsandr lies silent under him for a long breath, his hand ebbing and flowing against Zeb's forearm, steady and hypnotic. "Where else would I go, then?" he says, finally, the words carried on a sigh as heavy as stone. “Where in the wide galaxy can ex-Imperial go and be safe? Surely you know as well as I do that such a place doesn’t exist."

Zeb's eyes fly open, wide to the drinking darkness of his bunk, his ears barely registering whatever it is Alexsandr says next, something about duty and honor, his voice dipping into a glare Zeb doesn't need to see to know it's there as he says _Zeb are you listening to me._

"There's a place," Zeb says, rolling off of him a little. "Like you said, somewhere you can be safe. I know a place."

Alexsandr sighs. "Garazeb —"

Zeb kisses him, his chest and throat opening, the breath he draws spreading into his ribs, lifting him out of himself for the first time in what feels like forever. "Sleep. Lemme think this one over a little," he says. "I'll tell you more about it in the morning."

_Author's ruminations_

No one gets a prize for guessing where I’m going with this. You’re right, though, if that’s consolation.

Emerald_envy202020 and I both caught the wavelength that [this video](https://youtu.be/DiviQfLyQX4) would fit Alexsandr Kallus just _far too well,_ so I had a go at it, and I'm inclined to say we were right. Poor Kallus. It's hard to be proud and controlled when you're drugged out of your wits and you’ve got a big soft lasat looking after you. I imagine Zeb feels sleek, save for the lowest part of his ears and maybe his belly, where I imagine he’d be downy-soft. Probably has velvety ears and hands and feet, the tops of his feet anyway.

It’s entirely possible I’ve thought about this _way_ too much. Possible, but not likely.

And then the second part happened. That was going to be the chapter after this, but then I thought meh, why not include it here, so here it is, making this _easily_ the longest chapter so far. This _also_ means I have nothing written on chapter ... what, 10? at present, and no I haven’t yet written the side-story where Kallus tells Hera about Kanan, but I _will,_ I promise. Just as soon as I’m able.

Not sure what else to say, so I'll close here. Love y'all.

(Oh! I lied. I've found my way into tumblr under this same name, so if you wanna say hi, please do!)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the lovers quarrel.
> 
> (Fun drinking game: take a drink every time Zeb calls Kallus a bastard. You won't be sober by the end of the chapter.) >.>

**Brute Force**

_part x_

Zeb wakes the next morning from a nightmare he can’t quite remember, wakefulness finding him on a short, sharp intake of breath that brings him jarringly into the reality of his bunk aboard the _Ghost._ He looks around, wild for the second it takes him to catch his bearings, before dropping his head back down to the tickle of Alexsandr’s fur against his nose, the soft curls thick on his chest rising and falling along the slow cadence of his breathing, the scent of him warm amongst them, salty and rich where he’s sweat in his sleep. Almost enough to obscure the smell from the bandages wrapped tight across his belly, the sour smell of bacta beneath that. Zeb nestles into him, away from the chill of his dreams, indulging in the comfort of Alexsandr’s closeness, the undeniable proof of his being _alive_ written in each thump of his heartbeat, in every breath he draws and releases. In the warmth of his skin, the twitch of his hand against Zeb’s pillow, his arm draped in a graceful arc over his head as he stretches, his precious, beautiful body spread out and vulnerable in the safety of Zeb’s bunk, wrapped up in the embrace of the _Ghost,_ as relaxed and warm and sweet as he was in his hospital bed, touching and purring praises, the memory of it bringing a smile to Zeb’s face, embarrassed and pleased.

"What?" Alexsandr says, his voice sleep-rough and slurred, his hair scrubbing against the pillow as he stretches again and moves, curling in towards Zeb just a fraction, folding Zeb into a tired embrace.

"What’s what?" Zeb says.

"You’re smiling."

"Got a lot to be happy about."

"Ah."

Zeb nuzzles into him. "How’re you feeling?"

"Surprisingly whole," Alexsandr says, punctuating the words with a yawn, "if a bit sore, still. Nothing like the last time I was shot."

Zeb shudders, dragging his hand down to the dip of Alexsandr’s navel, then lower, feeling the rough bandage placed over his incisions, the skin around them shaved, strangely smooth to his touch. "Don’t ever want you getting shot again," he says.

"There we agree."

Zeb kisses him on the chest. "I meant what I said, you know," he says, tracing the outer edge of the bandage with the curve of his claw, "about knowing a place you could go where the Empire wouldn’t find you. Someplace safe."

"Mm. I didn’t doubt you," Alexsandr says, "though you know as well as I do that it's an offer I can't accept."

"Don't see why not."

Alexsandr curls his fingers, dragging his blunt nails up Zeb's side, the touch teasing tension from the muscle there, drawing a pleased rumble through Zeb's chest. "Because where I may be a bastard and a traitor," he says as Zeb purrs against him, "I'm not a coward. I won't run and hide, simply because someone wanted me dead."

The purring stops, Zeb swallowing around his lover's words. "Almost got his wish, though, this time."

"That's hardly new."

Zeb pushes himself up to look down at his lover, the pale skin under Alexsandr's eyes shadowed, still, his hair messy across his forehead. "Y'haven't had a place to go, before, though," he says. "You do, now."

Alexsandr sighs through his nose, reaching up to run his fingers through the long fur along the line of Zeb's jaw. "Surely we're not seriously having this conversation," he says.

Zeb frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Alexsandr's fingers still in Zeb's fur, the look of sleepy affection he'd been nurturing hardening into the start of a frown, and he doesn't answer, instead easing himself out from under Zeb's weight, moving like he hurts as he climbs out of bed. He keeps his back to Zeb as he pulls on his clothes and combs his fingers through his hair, making more a mess of it than it already was. Only turns when Zeb sits up as well, draping his legs over the edge of his bunk.

"It means no," he says without looking Zeb in the eye. "It means that, where I appreciate your concern, I'm not leaving this planet."

"But —"

"I don't recall _you_ ever avoiding situations where you were likely to be injured or killed," Alexsandr says, resting one of his hands agaist the edge of the upper bunk. "Or running to hide on this mystery world of yours whenever _I_ tried to kill you."

"You never had me floating in bacta," Zeb says.

"And I hope no one ever does," Alexsandr says. "That said —"

_"Please."_

Alexsandr sighs. "No, Garazeb."

"Why —"

"Because never _in my life_ have I run from danger," Alexsandr says, "and neither will I run from it now. Your cell was kind enough to take me in. I _will not_ leave them now, nor will I leave you."

"Wasn't gonna stuff you into a ship and send you off alone or anything, y'know," Zeb says, his ears flattening. "I was planning on coming with you."

"And leaving Lothal with _two_ of us fewer? Four of us, if you count our earlier losses."

Zeb's skin crawls, his fur prickling against the sleep-numbness gone stale across his back. "That wasn't what I — when you say it like _that ..."_ He shakes himself, his temper swelling and bursting small bubbles of embarrassment as he breathes. "Look, this ain't _normal._ We went _years_ without anything like this happening. Had a lot'a close shaves, sure, got captured and tortured some, but none of us ever — ever since Kanan, and Ezra —" He swallows, squeezing his fingers into his palms. "Wouldn't be forever, us going away. Just long enough for us to make sure they've found all the simps here who might —"

"— come after Lyste instead?" Alexsandr says, one of his eyebrows quirked, his mouth a flat line, as serious as he's ever been. "Or Modig? Rex? Maybe Sabine or Wedge — they were both Imperial, before." He leans back, his vest wrinkling where he crosses his arms over his chest. "I may be your lover, Zeb, but I'm _not_ special. No moreso than anyone else fighting to keep Lothal free, now that we've routed the Empire. Surely you know that."

Zeb resists the urge to argue, all of his own selfish bias rising up in his throat to choke him under Alexsandr's piercing stare. "Could at least take it easy today," he says, looking pointedly at Alexsandr's clothes, covering his bandages but hanging funny where he's gone back to leaning on the bunk, not yet strong enough to stand under his own power for long. "Nobody expects you back in duty the day after you got _shot."_

"To the contrary, I've _always_ reported back the day following an injury, and with far less comprehensive treatment than I received here," Alexsandr says.

"Yeah, well, this ain't the Empire."

"I'm well-aware of that, thank you."

Zeb flexes his hands, the skin pulling hard against the tender spot where his claw is starting to peel away, dying in its nailbed. "Fine," he says after he's got his temper pushed back down into his belly, tentatively controlled, "What's the plan, then, if you're gonna insist on staying planetside?"

"I'll let you know after I've conferred with my team," Alexsandr says, "just as soon as my overbearing lasat nursemaid stops trying to keep me from my duties."

He says it like he means it, the words savagely sharp, hurting more than they have any right to. Zeb snarls at him, pushing himself to his feet and stepping to the far end of the tiny room, gesturing grandly to the door. "Don't let _me_ stop you, then," he says. "By all means. Go do whatever it is you _smart_ creatures do."

They stare at each other, frown-for-glare, for a tense moment before Alexsandr relents, uncrossing his arms and reaching out to touch Zeb's upper arm, Zeb's name quiet in his mouth, but his touch is _grating_ to Zeb's skin, fanning betrayal and hurt across his fur. He jerks away from it as if he's been burned, and where Alexsandr does his best to cover his surprise at the rejection, he's not quite quick enough for Zeb to miss it, the hurt twisting in Zeb's chest reflected in his eyes.

"Very well," Alexsandr says, quietly, taking his hand back, moving slowly, stiffly as he turns and bends to pull on his boots. "I'll be off, then."

Zeb lets him go, staying back in the emptiness of his bunk, free to snarl at himself and his lover and the galaxy in general as he pulls on his clothes, braced to lie to Hera if she comes out to ask him if he's all right. The door to her bunk is closed when he steps out into the corridor and stays that way as he leaves, and he maybe moves more quietly than usual, embarrassment at his own cowardice putting him in the kind of mood even Ezra knew to avoid, back in the day, has him itching for a simp to come start something with him by the time he's reached the city center, returning to the work crew clearing away rubble from the streets. Kanan wouldn't be so cautious of him, he thinks as he grabs a chunk of stone and hefts it into the transport. He'd tell him he was being ridiculous, maybe egg him on. Get him mad enough to start talking, get him to get it all off his chest, and then —

He shakes his head and grabs another chunk of ruined stone, the brute force of the work burning away the ache gathered in his arms and legs and chest and throat, almost as satisfying as sparring with Alexsandr, his mind slipping from the heart-rending thoughts of Kanan to maddening thoughts of his spotted orange-furred _bastard_ lover, replaying their argument over and over like a glitching holo, which hurts less than thoughts of Kanan, but isn't pleasant, still hurts, even over the stretch and strain of the work. Hurts just as bad as the notion playing over and over, inescapable, that Alexsandr was _right,_ damn him to hell for it, none of the arguments Zeb entertains as he works holding any water, no matter how tightly he twists his thinking to justify them. He keeps after them all the same, each becoming a little more ridiculous than the last, mocking him in his pathetic desperation.

He’s settled on one particular idea by the time his team's breaking for lunch, a vivid fantasy of luring Alexsandr into a shipping crate and paying Hondo to drop him off on Lira San with little more than a handful of rations bars and a note for Gron to look after him, his mood only marginally improved by the mental image of Alexsandr’s head popping up from the box, his eyes going wide as he looks around and sees lasat all around him. He wonders what they’d make of him, if they’ve seen other species before, wonders how much they know about the rest of the galaxy, about the war, the Empire. Wonders what Alexsandr’s reaction might be to living among lasat, if their way of life would be anything like it was on Lasan. If they know about Lasan. About Zeb’s failure there.

"You look like a man who could use a drink," Rex says, sitting heavily at Zeb’s side and offering him a water bottle that absolutely does _not_ contain water, the whiskey mixture inside bright and sour and _strong,_ exactly the sort of engine degreaser Zeb would have expected an old school ‘trooper to drink, had he ever given it a moment's consideration, the burn of it welcome in his throat, clearing away the dust he’s been breathing all morning. "How’s Kallus?"

"Alive," Zeb says. "Recovering. Stubborn as durasteel."

Rex chuckles and takes a swig from the bottle before passing it back. "Wouldn’t’ve expected any different," he says. "It’s how Jedi are."

Zeb lifts the bottle in a grumpy toast and takes a swig before Rex’s words sink in, his ears pricking up to the clouds just starting to roll in when they do. "Wait," he says, swallowing the whiskey in his mouth, "what d’you mean —"

Rex looks at him sidelong. "You telling me he’s not?" he says, all fatherly kindness and knowing, his moustache curving over the smile warming his face all the way up to his eyes.

"He’d say he isn’t," Zeb settles on, after a second of furious mental deliberation.

"Ah. Just has the gift, then, doesn’t subscribe to the teachings?"

Zeb sighs. "What gave him away?"

"Been around enough Jedi to know what I’m seeing when I see it," Rex says. _"And_ I was standing at his side when he grabbed you out'a the line of fire on the Dome. Never seen anyone pull off _that_ kind of thing without the Force behind it."

Oh. Zeb takes another drink and hands the water bottle back. "Yeah. Well."

Rex leans back on a sigh, scratching his belly as he does. "They’re damned frustrating, the Jedi. Always think they know more than anyone else. And they _do_ know more than most of us, just often enough that you start thinking maybe they _actually_ know everything, maybe you should just trust them, let them do whatever foolish, deadly thing they’re hellbent on doing." He takes a healthy drink from his water bottle, shuddering all over as he swallows. "Hard enough serving under them. Can’t imagine being in love with one."

"Yeah," Zeb says.

Rex thumps him on the back, hard enough to jostle loose the desperate melancholy pulling at Zeb’s collarbones, bringing him back to the reality of the rations bar in his hand, the loose gravel scattered across the ground at his feet. "Well. Whatever it is you two’ve been wrestling, I'm sure he’ll come around to seeing things your way, ‘long as it’s good logic. If he’s anything like the others, that is."

Zeb holds out his hand for the water bottle, taking a long drink from it when Rex hands it over, the burn of the whiskey welcome in his throat, spreading through his ribs and belly. "Never met anyone like him, if I’m honest," he says, and Rex laughs, the sound warm and bright, filling the midday quiet.

— — —

They finish clearing away the worst of the rubble by late afternoon, the sky still light, the shadows from the buildings still standing not yet stretched long enough to bleed into one another. Early for the end of a day’s work, but the foreman in charge refuses to start on another part of the city without approval, doesn’t meet any resistance to the suggestion that they disband early from any of the others, so Zeb keeps his mouth shut, swallowing back the training from his younger years that instilled in him a mild distaste for early dismissal when he’s been assigned to duty. He'll find use elsewhere, he thinks as he says goodbye to the others and turns his feet towards Intelligence. Maybe find a simp to beat bloody on his way across the city. A shipping crate big enough to fit Alexsandr comfortably for the trip to Lira San.

He's pleased to discover upon arriving at Intelligence that, true to his word, Lyste — or one of the others assigned to Alexsandr’s team — has mounted a ‘droid outside the main doors that scans Zeb the instant he’s in range of it, the bo-rifle on his back setting off an alarm that one of the men inside has to disable before the doorlock clicks free in the blessed quiet that follows in the wake of the alarm’s shrieks. Not the best security — Zeb’s gotten past far more sophisticated measures without any real effort countless times before — but it's better than nothing, helps him to put aside some of the worry he’s nursed since he and Alexsandr parted ways that morning.

"Oh kriff, it's Captain Orrelios," Modig calls over his shoulder the second Zeb's come through the door to the main room. "Better make a run for it while you still can."

He's grinning as he says it, the sound of Alexsandr sighing from the back of the room — loud and projected in the way only Alexsandr can sigh, one of the few skills Zeb's _actually_ considered asking him to teach him — helping loosen the knot of worry that'd started to tie itself around Zeb's lungs. The others have all turned to to look at Lyste, save for Alexsandr, who hasn't lifted his attention from the datapad in his hands, Lyste freezing like a loth-rabbit under his comrades' grins, his big blue eyes going wide as he looks up at Zeb. 

"I dare any one'a you to _try_ outrunning me," Zeb growls, drawing himself up to his full, intimidating height. "What's happened."

"Absolutely nothing worth discussing," Alexsandr says, steady and commanding, his posture straight and perfect as he rises from his seat and comes forward. Just as controlled as he was after Zeb pulled him from the escape pod at Atollon, his body broken and marked over with bruises from Thrawn's sadistic hands, and just as sealed off, every inch the outsider he's not been in _years._ "We've put together something of a plan for securing the city and would appreciate your insights, if you're up to it."

Zeb frowns. "'Course," he says, casting one last curious look in Lyste's direction before joining Alexsandr at the map glass, a map of the city casting a pale blue glow across Alexsandr's fur, bleaching all of the richness from it.

The plan isn't great, doesn't even reach the shoulder of Alexsandr's usual strategies, but it's a start, better than nothing, and more than that, it takes into consideration who might be at the highest risk of being targeted, and how best to protect them, to keep them safe. Zeb frowns at it, the sleep he didn't get the night before and the physical exertion of his day conspiring to reduce his higher brain functions to a cup of tepid soup, the temptation to touch Alexsandr making it near-impossible for him to concentrate fully, his hands aching to stroke and grip and feel, to comfort and be comforted. 

He resists, frowning at the map of the city glowing before him instead, at the lines and circles blossoming across it, annotated in Alexsandr's even, tidy handwriting. "Dunno how realistic this all is, given the numbers we're working with here," he says after a long moment, the shapes finally congealing into something he can parse, picturing it on the streets he's come to know better than he'd ever thought he would. "Can't even cover the city, I'd bet, nevermind the outlying settlements and other cities."

"That's part of the scaling," Alexsandr says, turning to the holoprojection table, and Zeb doesn't miss the way he winces as he does, one of his hands going to his belly. He's loosened his belt, letting it sag where it isn't doing anything to keep his trousers up, the waistband of his trousers sitting lower on his hips as well, below where the medic cut him open just the day before. Zeb resists the urge to tell him to sit, knows without giving it much thought that Alexsandr won’t, just on principle, stubborn and proud as he is. "We'll see how it works here first and make adjustments as needed. Then, we'll communicate what we've learnt to the organizations running each city and village, for them to adopt and adapt as they see fit."

 _"Without_ help from the Rebellion," Lyste comments, resentment dark in his tone, echoing the feelings Zeb's kept under his tongue since the Dome.

"It _will_ be more effective if it's originating as close to home as possible," Alexsandr agrees. 

"You'll need to get Azadi in on it sooner rather than later, then," Zeb says. "That bit shouldn’t be too hard, though. I'm pretty sure he'll like it. He tends to like plans he doesn't have to come up with himself."

Modig snickers. "Gonna tell him you said that."

"I'll tell him myself if you like."

“A conversation best-left to tomorrow,” Alexsandr says before Modig can call Zeb's bluff, his hand resting on the projection table tightening a little as he turns, helping him keep his balance. “I think I’ll take my leave, for now. I trust you’ll contact me if I’m needed?”

“Yessir,” Modig and Lyste say, nearly in unison, the others nodding fervently.

“You have my thanks. Garazeb, if I could borrow you, please?”

Zeb's ears lift up, surprised and pleased. "Yeah, 'course."

"Thank you."

He's quiet as they leave Intelligence, moving like he hurts with each step, his shoulders squared with his old Imperial control, but he brushes the back of his hand against Zeb's as they walk out into the warmth of the day’s earlier starshine hoarded in the duracrete streets, keeps it close longer than he usually does, capturing Zeb's attention and keeping it, drawing him along his footsteps down the winding streets growing narrower as they move away from the heart of the city. Leading him out to the clearing where they sparred against one another only a precious few days earlier, Zeb realizes, the grasses whispering gossip against his ankles as they walk. They climb up the slope to the familiar oblong clearing among the stones, the marks Zeb left behind on one of the larger boulders visible in the diminishing starshine, their shadows draped over one another. 

"I yield," Zeb says once they've reached the center of the clearing, putting his hands up. Alexsandr cocks his head in answer, adorably confused for a second before he catches on and laughs softly, shaking his head.

"Of the two of us, I think _I_ should be the one yielding," he says, one of his hands going to his belly, covering the bandages beneath his shirt. "Though I'd be lying if I said I haven't been entertaining fantasies of sparring with you for the better part of my afternoon, despite how poorly I know that would end."

The thought of even _kissing_ him too hard turns Zeb's stomach, but he says _yeah_ all the same. "What're we doing here, then?"

"Well," Alexsandr says, "I feel a fool saying it aloud, but this place has been calling to me all day, much like having a song stuck in my head that I can't quite place. It may be nothing, but if it's something —" He shakes his head. "I'd like to see if I can sense anything, and as much as I don't like it, you had a fair point about my being something of a target, here. So if you would please keep watch —"

Zeb pulls his bo-rifle from his back, his fur rising to stand at attention, the thrill of Alexsandr's words rippling through him. "'Course. Happy to."

Alexsandr dips his chin in a single, solemn nod, then lowers himself to the ground, sitting as tall and solemn as a statue, the afternoon breeze sneaking around the cluster of boulders at his back as soon as his eyes are closed, playing with his hair. Zeb drinks in the sight of him, all of Alexsandr's strength and control framed against the pale stone at his back, his skin sallowed from the trauma of his injury, bringing his spots into brighter relief than usual, then turns his attention to the spaces between the boulders, his ears pricked and alert, and begins his watch. 

He's paced the clearing for ten minutes before movement catches his attention, his bo-rifle aimed and finger poised on the trigger, ready to fire, only stilled when one of the boulders says _it's just me, please don't shoot_ in Lyste's voice, saving Lyste from the likely poor outcome of startling an armed lasat honor guardsman on duty. Zeb lowers his weapon only as much as he needs to gesture for Lyste to be quiet when Lyste peers past the boulder at him, nodding when Lyste mimes joining him, gesturing to the blaster wisely holstered still at his hip. He casts a curious look to Alexsandr as he comes around into the clearing, but he keeps his mouth shut, his footsteps quiet as he walks, even in the rasping grasses, his entire presence transformed into the trained, more-than-competent soldier the Empire raised him to be. Unsurprising, Zeb thinks, for someone his age who'd achieved the rank he had, but still, a stark difference from the heartbroken young man sobbing into his chest the day prior, his determination to keep Alexsandr safe sweet in his usual, awkwardly earnest sort of way, his presence at Zeb's side a relief, the hint of Alexsandr's eyes slipping closed where he'd opened them, distracted and curious, making Zeb smile. 

They wait. 

Hours seem to pass, for all that the stretching shadows tell a different story, the growing hush of nighttime wrapping itself around the stiffness gathering in Zeb's knees, lapping at the current of thoughts passing through the quiet around them, no sound from either of his human companions or the gentle fields beyond their clearing breaking the silence. Zeb keeps his attention focused as best he can on the tide of grasses rippling around him, his ears alert and open for any sign of the threats of Ezra's beloved homeworld, but nothing comes, not before Alexsandr exhales on a gusting sigh and tries to stand, his injuries and the hours of his day slowing him badly enough that Lyste is able to holster his weapon and go to him before he's managed, helping him up.

"Are you all right?" he says, reluctant to take his hands away.

"I am, yes," Alexsandr says. "More than, even."

"What were you doing?"

"Meditating."

"Oh."

Alexsandr looks from Lyste to Zeb, then rests his hand on Lyste's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Thank you," he says, looking at Zeb, "for keeping watch."

"Anytime," Lyste says, so emphatically that it's all Zeb can do to keep back the grin he can feel warming across his mouth.

They walk back to the city together in companionable silence, Lyste's hand resting on the butt of his blaster, his attentions pulled from Alexsandr only whenever there's a noise or a shadow, his paranoia that every corner contains a threat rivaling Zeb's own, their silence as they walk, flanking Alexsandr, that of brothers-in-arms, a comfort Zeb finds himself grateful to have and disinterested in giving up. So he drags Lyste along with them to supper, Lyste looking like he's pulled half the stars from the night sky to brighten his baby-blue eyes as he sits with them, watching Alexsandr with barely veiled adoration as they eat. He bids them goodnight outside Alexsandr's assigned quarters, after, maybe hesitating just a breath too long before entering the room adjacent, its latch clicking into place with a _snap,_ leaving the corridor silent once again.

"That was kind of you, inviting him along," Alexsandr says, once he's pulled Zeb into his own room, quelling Zeb's fears that he might not be welcome.

"Yeah," Zeb says, "he's a good kid, Lyste. Like him more'n I thought I would."

"He's hardly a kid, but your point is well-taken," Alexsandr says. "I'll confess, though, as fond of him as I've grown lately, I'm glad to be freed of him for the night, and to have you to myself."

Zeb's heart knocks an uneven syncopation against his ribs. "Yeah?"

"Mm. We parted on bad terms this morning. It's sat poorly with me all day."

Zeb snorts, the calm understatement ridiculous where it hangs between them. "Yeah, me too," he says. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth to you."

"More than you may know," Alexsandr says, "and I am, as well. Sorry, for being an ass."

Zeb chuckles, crossing the room and kissing the frown from his lover's mouth, tasting his own relief in Alexsandr's sigh, the touch of his hands tentative, gripping more tightly when Zeb doesn't push him away.

"I saw a vision this evening, while I was meditating," Alexsandr says after a long moment, pulling away only as much as he needs to shrug out of his vest, wincing as he pulls off his sweater, the dark bacta patches over his surgical sites visible where his undershirt's ridden up, the skin around them swollen and tender. "As seems to be a common theme for me, you were in it. I'd like to hear your thoughts on it."

"Can't tell from your tone if I should be happy I'm in your visions or not," Zeb says.

"I wouldn't dare to guess one way or the other," Alexsandr says, looking up at him through the fall of his hair, messy where the evening breeze has had its way with it. Looks good like that. "Does the name _Lira San_ mean anything to you?"

Surprise pulls Zeb's ears back against his skull, the fur down his forearms lifting to attention. Alexsandr arches an eyebrow at him.

"From that reaction, I'm going to assume it does," he says, reaching up to stroke one of Zeb's ears, the comfort of his touch easing it up a little, warm in his palm, his touch trailing lower, following the contours of Zeb's arm down to his wrist. He cups the back of Zeb's hand in his palm, turning it up and open. "I saw your arm outstretched along the stars," he says, tracing the line of Zeb's thumb with the pad of his own. "You opened your hand and showed me a stone. Sandstone, by the look of it, pale yellow. Then you said, 'this is it, Lira San,' and the vision ended." He lowers his hand, letting it fall to his thigh, and looks up at Zeb. "I meditated on it for some time after, but I've made no more sense of it than I had at the start. I'm hoping you might be able to shed some light on it. As you're willing, and able."

Zeb forces what no half-wit would believe to be a chuckle. "Tempted to say you won't believe me if I tell you," he says. "And even if you do, you might get mad."

"Try me," Alexsandr says. "I might surprise you."

"You've always been full'a surprises," Zeb says, half to himself, a glance at his lover, face gone warm, telling him he's taken it as a compliment. A good thing. "All right, well. Y'know the place I said we could go, where the Empire wouldn't find you?" he says. "That's Lira San. The one I had in mind."

Alexsandr arches an eyebrow at him. "You're serious," he says, after a moment, "aren't you."

"Yeah, I am."

"I've never heard of such a planet."

"By design. Most'a the Rebellion don't know about it."

"Where is it?"

"Hidden. Safe."

"How can you be sure?" Alexsandr says. "Have you been?"

"I have, yeah."

Alexsandr frowns, staying still for a moment more before sinking down onto the bed, pulling his legs up into a butterfly shape before him, the bedframe registering its complaints as he moves. "What can you tell me about it?" he says. "Specifically, anything that might give indication why I saw it, or why I'm meant to go there?" The frown deepens, flirting with the low end of the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. "Or if it's even _me_ the Force intends to send there. It could be you, and I'm merely to act as the catalyst."

Zeb reaches up to rub where Alexsandr's words are gathering alongside the physical strain of his day, threatening a headache. "It's, ah. Well." He frowns, thinking. "It's a temperate planet. Single-star. Developed. Inhabited."

"By?"

"Sentients," Zeb says. He chuckles. "No bonzami, that I know of. Could be some up at the poles, I guess."

"Bonzami?" Alexsandr echoes.

"Big ice lizards, had a craving for lasat and human the last time I was on Bahryn to check."

"Oh. Is _that_ what those creatures were called."

"Yeah."

"You're making a joke."

"Trying to."

"Mm. Any tactical or military advantage?"

"Only that nobody knows it's there," Zeb says, "'cept for my team. And maybe Hondo."

"Hondo," Alexsandr echoes. "Hondo Onaka, the _smuggler?"_

"Pretty sure he calls himself a pirate, but yeah," Zeb says. He chuckles again at the look his lover is giving him, horror and confusion and maybe a bit of jealousy pinching the space between his eyes. "Might be one other who could figure out where it is, if he tried, but I don't think he will."

"Who?" Alexsandr wants to know.

"Not important. You should ask Ezra to tell you about how we found it, once we've got him back with us. It's a good story. One'a his favorites."

"All right," Alexsandr says. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Can't think'a anything else you'd need to know about it," Zeb says, "'cept that you'd be safe there, like I said. If it's serious enough for the Force to throw in for it —"

Alexsandr sighs, wincing a little as he unfolds himself and climbs to his feet. "I may not be all _that_ well-versed in the ways of the Force," he says, "but I'm relatively certain that that's not how it works."

"Not my area'a expertise," Zeb says.

"Nor mine," Alexsandr agrees. He smooths his hands down the front of his undershirt, wrinkling his nose as he does. "I don't think we'll unravel it tonight, and I feel like I've brought half of Lothal's grasslands in with me. I'm for the shower before we sleep."

He doesn't look dirty, looks more like he could do with lying down and sleeping for a week, but cleanliness is a _thing_ for humans, in general, and Imperial-trained humans, especially, so Zeb says _yeah, shower sounds good,_ and follows him down to the communal 'fresher. He himself has hoarded half a city block's worth of dust and grit in his fur over the course of his day, he discovers as he bathes, every muscle he used to haul rubble waking up to demand its due as he moves. Has him feeling warm and hazy by the time he's shutting off the water and drying himself, drunk almost, for all that the rot-gut Rex gave him has surely left his system hours before. 

Alexsandr isn't doing much better, putting up barely any resistance when Zeb comes over to help him change his bandages, his sigh as he lies back on the bed, nude and warm from his shower, speaking to the demands he's made of his body across the hours of the day. He closes his eyes while Zeb tends to him, open and trusting, his skin pricked over with roughness where Zeb's touch must be tickling him, hypersensitive where his fur's been shaved. Sits up only enough to pull the blankets up over himself as soon as Zeb's finished with him; unsubtle, for him, as is the pull Zeb feels against his lower ribs as he turns to join his lover in bed, the flex of Alexsandr's hand against the blanket the only indication that he's used his gift to tug Zeb towards him, his expression tired and wanting.

Zeb's chest _aches_ with it, all of the desperate love and anger and frustration he’s felt since their argument that morning rising and falling away, his entire _being_ too tired for anything more than the comfort of climbing into bed with his lover and kissing him, sinking into the intoxication of Alexsandr kissing him back, touching him. Tracing the lines of Zeb's stripes, Zeb realizes as he moves lower to nose at Alexsandr's fur. Following the stripes up Zeb's arm without looking, his eyes closed and head tipped back, the same sweet fascination he'd held for Zeb's markings the day prior once again in full evidence, his attentions drawing Zeb's cock up from its sheath, steadily hardening against his thigh.

They should be resting, Zeb thinks absently as he tips his head to the side, making room for Alexsandr to trace his stripes up the side of his neck to the fur at the base of his ear, or at very least _not_ rutting against one another like juveniles. Should be giving Alexsandr's body the chance to heal, he thinks as he slides his hand down Alexsandr's side, his claws drawing a full-body shiver through the man's frame, his cock fully hard where it's pressed against Zeb's belly. Enjoying the simple comfort of sleeping wrapped up in one another, he thinks, even as he wraps his hand around Alexsandr’s erection, swallowing the sound Alexsandr sighs into his mouth as he strokes him, slow and easy, his hand loose, touching how he likes to touch himself.

He leans down, instead, when Alexsandr tries to arch up against him, saving him from straining his injuries while simultaneously putting himself in range to be bitten, Alexsandr breathing his pleasure against the fine fur of Zeb's throat, biting down whenever a shudder pulls through him, his hips pushing up into Zeb's touch. Refusing to lie passive and let Zeb make him feel good, despite — or maybe because of — Zeb's weight pressing him into the mattress, the feel of him moving in counterpoint to Zeb's hand, going slick as Zeb works him, drawing Zeb's cock fully from its sheath, nudging into Alexsandr's hip, up to the soft curve of his buttocks. Going slick himself by the time Alexsandr's groaning against the line of his collarbone, the sound deep and visceral, his entire body drawn tight, shuddering around the edge of gratification. When it takes him, finally, he lifts his hips as far off the mattress as he can, pushing his strength against Zeb's, and cries out, his cock pulsing like a heart’s beating against Zeb’s fingers, making a mess of his chest, a tremor pulling through him as he finishes that makes his cock jerk as hard as if he were coming again.

"Oh — oh god," he breathes, fumbling to capture Zeb’s mouth in a breathless, earnest kiss. "Oh Garazeb."

Zeb groans and kisses him hard on the mouth, pulling the last aftershocks through him, Alexsandr's cock dripping over his fingers, wetting them plenty for him to take himself in hand as they kiss. He leans in close enough to nose at Alexsandr's fur as he masturbates, trusting Alexsandr’s hands, tight on his biceps, to keep him steady, to keep him from resting too much of his weight on him. Licks a line up the smooth skin of Alexsandr's throat as he works himself, the salt of Alexsandr's skin warm and bright under the bland remnants of soap, the sound he makes as Zeb mouths at his earlobe, at the soft skin behind it, sending a ripple of _wanting_ through Zeb's entire being, his body twisting in on itself before it coils tight and _holds,_ maddening tightness driving the breath from him. He bites down on Alexsandr's throat, his knuckles scrubbing against the fur of Alexsandr's thigh for the long, desperate seconds until he peaks, coming messy over his own fingers, Alexsandr groaning under him, shivering as if _he_ were the one coming, his heartbeat rich against Zeb's tongue. His fingers are shaking as he drags them down Zeb’s arm to his wrist, over his hand, rubbing them over the slick head of Zeb's cock, then lifting them to his mouth to lick, slow and unhurried, the bitter flavor still strong on his tongue when Zeb leans in and kisses him. 

"Made a mess'a you," Zeb says when he has to pull back to _breathe,_ looking down the length of Alexsandr’s body, his fur splattered with their ejaculate, the skin beneath pinked where Zeb’s rubbed against him. His throat marked over where Zeb bit him, too high for his vest or sweater to cover, the marks bright against his spots.

“Mm,” Alexsandr says, flexing the hand he’d been licking, drawing his undershirt to him with little more than the motion and mopping at the mess cooling on his chest and belly with a fraction of his usual dedication to cleaning himself. It's a lost cause, really, his sigh of resignation cute in an Alexsandr Kallus sort of way when he gives it up, finally, lying still as Zeb leaves him to retrieve a damp cloth from the ‘fresher, stealing a slow, easy kiss on his way out. Completely wrung out from his orgasm, Zeb thinks, pride just starting to warm in his belly until he comes back and finds Alexsandr sitting up in his favored meditative pose, his back straight and eyes closed, his skin pricked over with chill once again. As controlled and disciplined as ever, his sigh long-suffering when Zeb joins him in bed and starts washing him straight away, but he doesn’t say anything about the distraction, taking the cloth from Zeb’s hands to clean himself, instead, quick and efficient.

He’s not shivering by the time he’s clean enough to lie down, but his skin is cool to the touch when Zeb joins him under the blankets, lying half on top of him, warming him, Alexsandr sighing as he settles into stillness, contented to the point that Zeb’s fairly confident he’d be purring, if he could. His breath caresses Zeb’s shoulder, slowing to the cadence of sleep, the warmth of it drawing a purr from Zeb’s own belly in answer, low and rumbling, his hand warm when he moves it to Zeb’s ribs, tracing the lines of his stripes under the blankets, steady and meditative, the touch just the right side of ticklish; intimate in a way Zeb’s not felt with any of his other lovers. He's drifted into a twilight nothingness filled with the sound and feel of Alexsandr touching him, trusting and safe under him, when Alexsandr next speaks, his voice soft and low, his Coruscanti accent as rich as caf, rolling Zeb back into wakefulness.

“A compromise,” he says.

Zeb draws a long breath in through his nose, Alexsandr's scent filling him as he does. “Hm?”

“I’d like to propose a compromise,” Alexsandr repeats, dragging his fingertips up along the words as he does, counting Zeb's heartbeats under his ribs.

"All right. What kind'a compromise?"

“I will go with you to Lira San," Alexsandr says, sleep peeling away from Zeb at the sound of his words, pushed up by waking hope, _"but,_ not until Hera's delivered her child."

Excitement slips sideways into confusion, taking Zeb along with it. He pushes himself up, frowning down at his lover. “Until Hera's — what?

Alexsandr yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he does. "Act surprised when she tells you, please.”

“Pretty surprised now. How do you know she’s pregnant?”

“She told me.”

Zeb’s ears flatten. “That ain’t fair,” he says. “Why’d she tell _you_ first?”

Alexsandr chuckles softly, reaching up to stroke Zeb’s jawline, his expression sleepy, kind. “How else would she tell Kanan that he's to be a father?” he says.

And that makes sense, logic somehow making the injustice of it feel even worse, jealousy sending Zeb into a petulant pout he’s too wrung out to keep from the sigh he heaves as he lies back down, curling his arm once again around the privileged, lucky _bastard_ lying beneath him. “How long’ve you known?”

“A few days.”

Zeb frowns, idly stroking Alexsandr's fur, his claw brushing over the unevenness of one of his nipples. “She doesn’t _look_ pregnant.”

“That’s generally how these things go at the start, Garazeb.”

Zeb growls at him, resisting the temptation to bite. “She ain’t very far along, is what I meant,” he says, “so it’ll be a while before we can go to Lira San.”

“Yes.”

“Ain’t much of a compromise you're offering, then.”

Alexsandr sighs, shifting to rest his cheek against the top of Zeb’s head, the fur of his face warm, always warmer than the rest of him. “I suppose it isn’t, no.”

“Still gonna take you up on it it, though.”

He can _feel_ Alexsandr’s answering smile, his fur shifting with it, curving humor across his cheek. “Thank you.”

"I don't like it. For the record."

"I'm sure you don't. I'm sorry."

"You're not."

He closes his eyes, soaking in the feel of Alexsandr's humor warm in the kiss he presses to the top of his head, the unfairness of the whole thing set at bay as he curls in, breathing in Alexsandr's scent, the sound of Alexsandr's heartbeat lulling him into a hazy half-sleep, his thoughts blurring and mixing until they're quiet enough for him to drop off completely, safe in his own dreams. 

_Author's ruminations_

This chapter gave me fits! Mostly because I hate writing characters quarrelling and this was The Spot For Quarrelling — because I mean, _c'mon,_ you _know_ these two wouldn't get very far into their relationship without getting all over each other's nerves, so. Also, there was a LOT more quarrelling, originally, with a big ol' dollop of Alexsandr being a stubborn little shit about his injuries, but I cut it because it was just depressing and just. No. No thank you.

(These two idiots deserve each other.)

For the curious, Rex is drinking a whiskey sour on the job. I make mine with 2 tbsp aquafaba, dry-shaken, then mixed with 3 oz good Irish whiskey, 2 oz lemon juice, and 2 oz simple syrup (which is equal parts sugar and water, boiled until the sugar is dissolved). Shake with an ice cube and serve cold. Goes great with _Star Wars_ erotica, I can attest from personal experience.

I like the next chapter _so_ much better. Not that it's in any kind of postable shape, but. Y'know. It's a good chapter, or will be as soon as I've coaxed it into being.

Leave me love if you have any to spare! It does spur me on, truly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where some promises fall apart, and others are upheld.
> 
> (And sex happens again. Like, a _lot_ of it.)

**Brute Force**

_part xi_

Seven months later, Hera delivers her son.

Not her _first_ son, she says with a wink when Zeb and Kallus come by to visit her, her hand gentle as she pulls Zeb down to kiss him on the cheek, as loving and maternal as she was the first day Kanan introduced him to her, back when being treated as anything other than an unintelligent brute put Zeb on the defensive, distrustful of anything that didn't immediately hurt. Jacen is small, smaller even than Zeb had assumed Twi'lek or human infants would be, cradled in his mother’s arms, even wrapped up in his blanket as he is, the soft fabric lending some bulk to his little body. Sleeping quietly, his chubby little cheeks pinked as he dreams.

“Would you like to hold him?” Hera says.

Zeb doesn’t take a step back, but it takes conscious effort. “Nah. Afraid I’d crush the little bogan.”

“You won’t. He’s made of sterner stuff than you think.”

“Sure he is. I’ve met his parents,” Zeb says, his chest aching at the words, at the sad little smile that graces Hera’s mouth.

“Kallus?” she says.

To Zeb’s unending surprise, Alexsandr nods and steps forward, reaching out for the baby, cradling him to his chest, his face pulled into a contemplative frown as he rests his other hand on Jacen’s chest. If Jacen looked small in Hera’s arms, he’s positively _tiny_ in Alexsandr’s, dwarfed under Alexsandr’s broadness, tucked safely into the strength of his arms.

“We’ll be in the next room,” Hera says, keeping her voice low as she pulls gently at Zeb’s elbow.

Alexsandr nods, lowering himself down to kneel on the rug at the center of the room, looking once more at Jacen before stretching himself up into his usual meditative posture, his eyes closed as he draws a long, deep breath.

“Tryin’a reach Kanan, is he?” Zeb says once he and Hera have moved to the back room, the sofa along the window draped with a blanket, a bassinet next to it. Not the bedroom, he notes, and he wonders, but he knows better than to ask, Hera dropping onto the sofa with a sigh that speaks to the exhaustion he can see lining her face, her shoulders curved under the weight of it.

“Yes. He’s tried since Jacen was born, but —” Hera shrugs, looking up at Zeb, all of the sadness she’s worn since Kanan’s death bright in her eyes.

“No telling when the Force’ll play nice,” Zeb fills in for her, earning a snort for his troubles, Hera shaking her head.

“Kanan would have been so out of his depth as a father,” she says. “I wish he’d had the chance.”

Zeb puts his arm around her, pleased when she leans into him. “Me, too,” he says.

He sits with her in their shared hurting, easing her down and draping the blanket over her when the weight of motherhood drags her under in the afternoon quiet. Leaves her to sleep once she's started to snore quietly and sneaks back into the main room, his ears pricking up at the sound of Jacen burbling quietly in Alexsandr’s arms, awake but not fussing, the cadence of Alexsandr bouncing him steady enough to keep him quiet, his attentions focused on staring up at Alexsandr with unfiltered fascination.

"Looks like he likes you," Zeb says when Alexsandr notices him and pats the floor in invitation for Zeb to sit at his side. “You're good with him.”

“Mm. I should hope I would be.”

Zeb frowns. “You, ah. Have kids’a your own or something? Before?”

Alexsandr shakes his head, shifting Jacen a little in his arms. “Of course not,” he says.

"Then why —"

“I was the second eldest of seven children when I growing up," Alexsandr says, "and I was significantly older than the youngest three. More a parent-figure to them than a sibling.”

"Huh," Zeb says, surprised. "Didn't know that." He offers Jacen his clawless index finger when he notices the kid staring, eyes huge. Not an uncommon reaction to a lasat, even among sentients old enough to have seen more than a dozen individuals of different species in their lifetimes, though he’s pleased that Jacen hasn’t started wailing at the sight of him, his expression curious, more than anything.

“Do you?” Alexsandr wants to know. “Have any children?”

"Did, yeah," Zeb says, expecting surprise and chuckling quietly when that's exactly what he gets, Alexsandr’s eyes wide as he turns to stare at him. "Heh. Yeah. Had a daughter. She'd be near twenty, now."

Alexsandr's face falls. "Is she —"

"Gone? Yeah. She and my spouse both.”

“On Lasan?”

“Yeah.”

"Zeb, I'm —"

"Ain't what you're thinking," Zeb interrupts, wiggling his finger against Jacen’s chest, Jacen staring him down, still. Easier to focus on him than the look he can well enough imagine he’s getting from his lover. “I wasn't interested in settling down, but it was expected of me, as captain of the Honor Guard, often the queen's escort,” he says. “Wouldn't'a been proper, me being unattached. And it wasn't proper for me to be with who I _wanted_ to be with, either, so —"

He sighs, the whispers of old frustrations, a younger man's frustrations, licking at his spine. "It wasn't a love match, me 'n my spouse. Arranged by the royal council, and I went along with it. Didn’t see much point in refusing. Didn’t see much point in being a husband, either, and I wasn't interested in being a father, so she didn't have much interest in me being around, and all that put together —" He shrugs. "They deserved better'n they got, even before the Empire. Deserved better'n me."

Alexsandr's hand is gentle at his wrist, stroking down from his elbow and holding, loose but present. "I'm sorry."

Zeb shrugs. "It was a long time ago."

Alexsandr hums softly and leaves Zeb to gather himself back together, returning his attention to the baby in his arms, his hand remaining where it is on Zeb’s wrist, his thumb stroking along the dark stripe of fur curved over the fine bones at the base of his hand, so gentle and loving it hurts.

He’s shifted to lean into Zeb’s arms when Hera comes out of the bedroom, her cheek creased from the sofa cushions and her eyes heavy with the hours of sleep she’s given to her son since his birth, but she smiles at the sight of them, Jacen asleep in Alexsandr’s arms once again, Alexsandr busy reviewing Lyste’s latest security report on his datapad, Zeb reading over his shoulder, his cheek resting against the side of Alexsandr’s hair. Probably an embarrassing display of domesticity, Zeb thinks as she comes over and takes Jacen from Alexsandr, mouthing _thank you_ as she does, but he’s comfortable enough that he doesn’t much care.

“Any luck?” she says, rocking Jacen a little when he stirs, the motion soothing him back to sleep.

Alexsandr shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“I would try again this evening, if you’d like.”

Hera shakes her head. “It’s fine. You've done what you can already, and there's no rush. We have all the time in the world.”

"As you wish," Alexsandr says, sounding unconvinced.

Hera kisses him on the cheek before he leaves, speaking softly to Jacen as the door closes behind them, Jacen just starting to fuss in her arms. Alexsandr is quiet as they walk away from her flat, swearing softly but viciously once they’re well out of earshot, his hands balled at his sides.

“Never in my life have I so regretted not having formally trained in the use of my abilities,” he says when Zeb looks at him in surprise, “but I have regretted it _every single day_ since that child’s birth.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, treating the street to a solid seven on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale. “I was able to speak with Kanan once — _once_ — before Jacen was born, and took that opportunity to tell him that he was to be a father. But ever since — _nothing._ No matter what I try.”

“Could see if Ahsoka’d be willing to help out,” Zeb says, but Alexsandr shakes his head.

“She politely but firmly declined when I approached her,” he says, “which I understand, given the relationship she has with her master. _Had_ with her master.”

“Things go badly for her there?” Zeb says.

Alexsandr looks at him, eyebrow quirked. “Yes,” he says, simply. “Very.”

Zeb opens his mouth to ask but thinks better of it, a different notion passing through his thoughts, loudly enough for it to snag and catch. “Might know someone else who could help you out,” he says. “Not a Jedi, but Force-sensitive. Dunno _how_ Force-sensitive, but — enough, I think. Should be enough.”

“I’m listening,” Alexsandr says, and his ears don’t perk up — human ears can’t, though Zeb’s known a handful who could wiggle them on command, which is equal parts adorable and useless — but the sentiment’s there, all the same. “Someone I know?”

“Nah. She’s, ah. On Lira San, actually.”

“I see,” Alexsandr says, his tone even, controlled, his expression unreadable, partially obscured by his hair. He’s quiet as they walk, sunk into his own thoughts in the way he gets, sometimes, usually only when he and Zeb are alone, when he feels safe ignoring his surroundings, unusually trusting of Zeb to keep him safe as they walk. He stays where he is, folded up into his own mind, until they reach the edge of the city, Zeb nudging him gently, drawing him back to himself.

“Up for a match?” he says.

“I am.”

“You’re sure?”

Alexsandr gives him a Look, shrugging out of his vest and sweater and slipping into his favored fighting stance, the smirk curling his cheek up into his eyes giving Zeb the _strongest_ urge to pin him to the ground and keep him there, his muscles all singing with it, tensed and ready to show his cocky bastard of a lover what’s what.

He doesn’t, despite his very best efforts, but Alexsandr doesn’t best him, either, until both of them are exhausted to the point that Zeb gives in and _lets_ Alexsandr pin him, the long grasses a blessed comfort under his back, the feel of Alexsandr on top of him, sweating and breathing hard, more than enough a consolation prize, the heaviness in his arms drawing them back against his efforts to reach up and _touch,_ brushing Alexsandr’s hair back where it’s clinging to the sweat of his face.

“I’m calling this a draw,” Alexsandr informs him, climbing off of him and reaching down to help him up.

“‘Cause that’s what it is,” Zeb agrees.

“Mm.”

“Join me for a drink?”

Alexsandr chuckles. “So long as there’s food as well, yes,” he says.

Which makes perfect sense, once he’s said it, Zeb’s stomach waking up enough to present him the bill for the hours passed since he last ate anything, coupled with the exertion of sparring against Alexsandr, the thought of a good meal stretching the distance from their clearing into the city, his stomach actively grumbling by the time they’ve reached the city proper and found a public house that isn’t too crowded.

“I’ll go,” Alexsandr says partway into their meal, his plate mostly empty, his thumb stroking the smooth side of the glass he's emptied once already of whiskey, the smooth edge of his thumbnail chasing a droplet of condensation down to the table’s surface.

“How’s that, then?” Zeb says, blinking at him.

Alexsandr shakes his head. “Apologies,” he says. “I sometimes forget you’re not in my head with me. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about your Force-sensitive contact on Lira San. I’d like to meet them, if you’ll make the introduction.”

Zeb’s heart kicks him in the ribs, the hours of his day and the liquor in his system leaving him open to the rush he gets from his lover's words, excitement winding up his throat. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says. “Been wanting to for a while now.”

“And you’ve been inordinately patient,” Alexsandr says. “I promised you that I would go, after all, once Jacen was born. I hope you know I've not delayed intentionally. I’d hoped I’d be able to speak with Kanan, to introduce him to his son, but as it’s not looking as if that’s within my capability, not without help ...”

“Ain’t your fault,” Zeb says.

“No, but neither is it of any benefit of anyone for me to stay here if I’m unable to do what I’d intended to do,” Alexsander says. “Lothal is thriving under its own power and hardly needs us as it did before, the Empire seems to have accepted its loss here and moved on — if there is a better moment, I can hardly imagine it.”

“That’s true enough.”

Alexsandr chuckles softly. “You look as if you’re waiting for the catch.”

“Is there one?”

“There isn’t. Do you have in mind when we’ll go?”

 _Right now_ presents itself as a viable option, but Zeb keeps that behind his teeth, dumping what’s left in his glass over the words before they can find their way out of his throat. “Soon as you’re able,” he says, instead. “Gonna have to tell your guys you're leaving, pick one of ‘em to put in charge while you’re gone.”

“Lyste is the obvious choice,” Alexsandr says. “I’ll let him know tomorrow. Hera will also need to know. And Sabine.”

“Yeah. Hera’ll probably want to give us a ride.”

“Mm. From your tone, I’m guessing we’ll decline her offer.”

“If she’ll let us.”

“Very true.” Alexsandr sighs, picking up his glass and finishing off his drink. “I’ll notify my men. Let me know if you need help with any other arrangements.”

“Thinking I might need help finishing off the rest’a this bottle, to celebrate,” Zeb says. “If you’re up for it.”

Alexsandr pushes his glass over. “I am,” he says.

They’re both of them well drunk by the time they’ve finished off the bottle between them and left the pub, Alexsandr’s face flushed but his gait even and straight, as impressive a front as he’s ever put up in Zeb’s presence. He manages to keep it intact for the walk back to his quarters, only letting his hands wander over to Zeb’s body once they’re in the ‘fresher together, and even then he only lets himself slip a little, his cock swelling to stiffness when the alcohol in Zeb’s system convinces him that it’s a good idea to grope him back. The sound of footsteps outside the ‘fresher scares them back into some semblance of propriety, both of them almost dried as they fall into bed together, Zeb climbing on top of Alexsandr to kiss and scent him, the feel of him, warm and damp, always his favorite, even when he _isn't_ drunk. Alexsandr responds beautifully to his attention, rocking against him and _touching,_ his nails grown long enough to draw shudders through Zeb’s entire body as he drags them down Zeb's sides, tracing his stripes. Moaning softly against Zeb’s chest as he rolls them and leans down to _bite,_ his nose pressed hard into Zeb’s fur.

"I want —" he says against Zeb’s chest, his voice quiet, intimate between them, the words muffled a little as he shakes his head and bites Zeb again, pushing at him. “Lie back. I want to taste you.”

Zeb growls and does as he’s been asked, bunching the pillow up under his neck well enough for him to watch as Alexsandr moves down the bed and nudges his thighs apart, settling between them in a loose curl, his breath warm against Zeb's cock as he leans in to _kiss,_ pressing his lips against it, forming them around one of the lower nubs, his mouth soft and warm. He cradles Zeb’s cock in the palm of his hand, keeping it steady for him to open his mouth and _lick,_ dragging his tongue over one of Zeb’s nubs, breathing a quiet sound of pleasure as he does.

His tongue's different from a lasat's; Zeb’s known _that_ well enough since the first time he felt it in his mouth, kissing the man, and he’d be lying if he said he’d not entertained more than a few fantasies of what Alexsandr’s tongue might feel like against his cock, the thought of it always good to get him off when he’s been left to see to his own pleasure. The reality of it is different from his fantasies, different but _good,_ the rough texture of Alexsandr’s tongue waking every nerve-ending in each nub he licks, ticklish lightness dragging a moan from Zeb’s throat as Alexsandr slots his tongue between the nubs, tracing circles around them. It’s wetter than a lasat's tongue as well, but just as strong, Alexsandr pressing it flat against each nub as they harden for him, his lips grazing each in a bare, ticklish kiss before he moves on to the next one, keeping his breath close, warm where Zeb's cock is wet from his tongue. Incredible, all of it, both in the newness of it and the sensations fanning across Zeb's skin, his cock jerking in Alexsandr's hand, trapping his heartbeats as they rush through him.

He jerks _hard_ when Alexsandr pulls away and moves back down to the root of his cock, pressing the full, powerful flat of his tongue against the underside of his cock and dragging it upward, licking a long, wet stripe all the way up to the head, bringing Zeb slick as he moves to the side and licks again, the pad of his thumb resting against the nubs he’s already wet with his mouth, rubbing where they’re stiff, still, straining for friction. He massages them as he mouths his way slowly up the side of Zeb’s cock, humming softly at the back of his throat in answer when Zeb shudders under him, the scrub of his fur against Zeb’s sheath intimate and grounding. Milking the slick from him in a slow, building pleasure that Zeb’s not felt in _years,_ not something he's bothered with when he masturbates, the _wanting_ he feels as Alexsandr touches him rippling across his entire being, thrumming hot under his skin.

“‘S so good,” he breathes when Alexsandr looks up at him, licking his lips and squeezing Zeb’s cock. “Where’d you learn how t’do all that?”

Alexsandr hums in answer, clearly pleased, and drags his fingers through the slick dripping from Zeb’s cockhead, making a bit of a show of it, curling his fingers for a second pass, smearing Zeb’s slick over the backs of them as well. “I wonder,” he says, “if you might be interested in kriffing _me_ tonight, rather than our usual arrangement?”

Zeb’s cock jerks, slick dripping down to the mess he’s already made of his own belly. “Yeah,” he says, “if, ah. You think it’ll be all right. Kind’a different, getting kriffed by a lasat than it is by a human.”

Alexsandr _smirks_ at him, the bastard, and sinks down without answering, his mouth covering Zeb’s cockhead completely this time as he curves his body and reaches behind himself, his forearm flexing as he — _gods_ — starts to finger himself, sucking steadily at Zeb’s cock as he does.

Zeb groans, his breath snarling tangles in his throat as he reaches down, feeling Alexsandr's warmth through the damp tangles of his hair, his wonderful rough tongue licking broad strokes across the head of his cock, surrounded and held with the barest suction in his mouth. Worshipping him with every little sound in his throat, every squeeze of his other hand where it rests on Zeb's thigh, his breath coming fast and uneven as he pulls up and off, nosing his way up Zeb's body when Zeb pushes himself up to take his mouth in a wet, distracted kiss, Alexsandr dipping his fingers into the mess of Zeb's slick before reaching back to finger himself once again, his fingers making the most amazing wet sounds as he moves them, his cock as hard as a blaster barrel against Zeb's side. Moaning softly into Zeb's mouth when Zeb slides his hand down the line of his back, over the curve of his buttocks, down to the slick muscle of his ass, his hand moving against Zeb's touch, rougher and faster than he does when it’s Zeb he’s driving crazy with his fingers.

"Move over t'this side'a me," Zeb says against his mouth when the kiss devolves into little more than heavy breathing between them, the craving to feel his lover more intimately than he is overwhelming him. "If you want one'a my fingers in you, anyway."

Alexsandr shudders against him, dropping his forehead to Zeb's shoulder. “Yes, _please,”_ he breathes, sitting back to shift over, pulling his fingers free as he does, his legs uncoordinated from the alcohol in his system as he straddles Zeb’s thigh. He leans in close enough to nose at the soft fur at the base of Zeb’s ear, down to the longer fur along the line of his jaw, and Zeb answers him with a rub of his cheek against Alexsandr’s forehead, wrapping his arm around him, steadying him, before reaching down to drag his finger through the mess smeared across his belly, more of it than he'd expected, his cock dripping still, hypersensitive when he brushes the back of his hand against it. He presses his finger against the tight, slicked grip of Alexsandr’s ass, trying to be as gentle as he can, maybe too gentle, Alexsandr impatiently pushing back onto him, biting down on his neck hard enough to _ache,_ his hands going to Zeb's shoulders, squeezing hard as he rolls his hips, setting a faster rhythm than Zeb would have, if he were in control. Faster than Alexsandr's ever gone when it's his hands working Zeb open, the sound he makes raw and broken when Zeb crooks his finger, his knuckles adding to the stretch, Alexsandr breathless against the fur of Zeb's throat.

He's well-slicked but tight, still, when Zeb pulls free of him, thinking to push him down onto his back and work him open the rest of the way with his tongue, the way he’s always done with his other lovers, but Alexsandr climbs out of his lap before he's managed, turning away from him and reaching down to wrap his hand around Zeb's cock once again, worry just starting to thread through the thick animal _wanting_ clouding Zeb's mind as Alexsandr sinks down onto him, low enough to nudge against the head of his cock, slipping it just a fraction inside.

"Careful,” Zeb says, grabbing at Alexsandr’s thighs, the squeeze of Alexsandr’s body around his cockhead tantalizing but _tight,_ clenching fretfully at him. “Are y'sure you’re —"

“I am, yes,” Alexsandr breathes, his fingers moving lower, slicking Zeb’s nubs as he massages them, easing them past the thick muscle of his ass, going agonizingly slow, his thighs shaking under Zeb’s palms as he holds himself aloft. “You feel good.”

Zeb groans and tips his head forward, resting it against the back of Alexsandr’s neck, trapped in stillness between the feel of Alexsandr working himself down his length and the persistent worry that he’s going to hurt him. Especially when he slides his hand up the now-familiar scar of Alexsandr’s thigh to his cock and finds his lover's erection wilted, flagging against his thigh, Alexsandr’s breath catching when Zeb takes him in hand, fondling him slowly back to hardness. He’s near fully erect by the time he’s worked the last nub inside himself, the heat and pressure of his body tantalizing where it sucks and scrubs against every contour of Zeb's cock, Zeb holding himself breathless and still as he watches the final inch of himself slide into Alexsandr’s body, the way Alexsandr sighs once it’s in, utterly satisfied, sending a shudder down his spine, so powerfully aroused that it makes him dizzy, his hands shaking as he tightens them where he’s holding his lover.

“Y’feel amazing,” he breathes against Alexsandr’s back, grazing his fangs against Alexsandr’s shoulder when Alexsandr rocks against him, the small motion teasing a shiver through his skin, raising the fur across his belly and back and buttocks to taste the motion of the air around them.

“As do you,” Alexsandr says, moving again, more of Zeb slipping out of him this time before he pushes back, taking him in once again, his body swallowing Zeb's cock as if they’d been made for one another. _“So_ good.”

Zeb growls and pushes in counterpoint, just barely, pleased when Alexsandr moves with him, breathing out on a satisfied sigh that chokes and snarls in his throat, culminating in a low moan, easily the most erotic thing Zeb’s ever heard. He means to hold still, after that, to let Alexsandr move on him how he'd like, the same way Alexsandr lets _him_ take control when their roles are reversed, but the urge to push up into him, to chase the slick heat inside his body proves too much for him, the mismatch between them as they find their rhythm frustrating and maddening and _glorious,_ Alexsandr back to full hardness in Zeb’s hand by the time they've got it, rocking down onto Zeb’s cock and up into his hand with all of the strength and drive he's ever had, kriffing Zeb stupid. Moving like he's _using_ Zeb, as dominant and commanding as he’s ever been in a fight, everything going slick between them as he moves, his voice rising in pitch and volume, breaking around a full-body shudder that squeezes him tight around Zeb’s cock, Zeb's name breaking on his lips like a prayer.

He arches his back and sucks in a sharp breath when Zeb starts to stroke him in earnest, sliding his other hand up from Alexsandr's thigh to his chest, pulling him back against him, anchoring him as he fucks and strokes him, Alexsandr arching against his grip in answer, shaking as he pushes himself down onto Zeb's cock in sharp, short bursts. He wraps his hand around Zeb’s and squeezes after a precious few minutes, forcing a tighter rhythm, his cock making a mess of Zeb's hand even before he groans and starts to come. When he _does_ hit his peak, he arches into it, crying out as Zeb's claws dig into his chest, slipping against his fur in attempt to anchor him, to keep him close enough to fuck him through it, the uneven clench of Alexsandr's ass around his cock maddening and beautiful, Alexsandr's hips stuttering against his uneven breath as he sinks back into Zeb, fucking himself slow and deep through the aftershocks, his heart pounding under Zeb's palm.

"Incredible," he breathes, his chest heaving, tremors of his orgasm rippling through him, still, sucking and pulling against Zeb's cock, still hard inside him.

Zeb groans and bites him, harder than he should, he thinks absently as he pushes up into his lover, Alexsandr moving with him, tired and boneless for only a moment before he comes back into himself, flexing his legs and buttocks in counterpoint to Zeb's desperation, breathing praises as he does, all but _begging_ for the orgasm Zeb wants more than he's ever wanted anything before, his hands going to Alexsandr’s thighs and holding tight as he pushes in impossibly deep and _bites,_ tasting the salt of his skin, Alexsandr sweaty from their coupling, the scent and feel and taste of him as bright and beautiful as the orgasm he can feel building in his belly and sinking lower, held by a thin, gossamer thread as he thrusts up and in to the man he loves.

He chokes on his own cry of pleasure when it hits, finally, everything tightening down to a concentrated point of tortured desperation for the long, agonized second before release takes him, pulsing as bright and powerful as any weapon, his ejaculate filling and slicking Alexsandr’s body, the hypersensitive nerves of each nub greedily devouring the constriction of muscle around them, urging Zeb into a desperate pace, Alexsandr’s weight and strength anchoring him, giving him the perfect angle to push up and in forever, his entire body shaking as he takes his pleasure, aftershocks rippling through him as he fucks through it. He's dizzy when the pleasure starts to ebb, nuzzling drunkenly into Alexsandr's shoulder as he catches his breath, the feel of Alexsandr stroking his hands and arms, tracing his stripes, adding to the feeling of floating, Alexsandr's breath still coming fast, loud in the new quiet settling over their room.

“Incredible,” he breathes against Alexsandr’s shoulder, darting out his tongue to sooth the red marks where he bit him, maybe harder than he should have.

“Mm,” Alexsandr says, tipping his head to the side, rubbing his fur against Zeb’s temple. "I'd imagined I'd quite like you kriffing me, but this —" He draws a deep breath, sighing as he rubs against Zeb again, affectionate and loving. _“Magnificent.”_

Zeb shivers, leaning away enough to make room for Alexsandr to pull up and off of him, the sensation flirting with just the wrong side of too much, now that he’s come, for all that his entire body is numb and tingling, heavy in all the best ways. “How'd you know so much about all that?” he slurs, watching blearily as Alexsandr climbs out of his lap and retrieves a towel, doing what he can to clean up the mess they’ve made of him. "All that stuff you were doing. With my cock."

Alexsandr gives him a look over his shoulder, one of his eyebrows lifted as he comes back to bed, scrubbing at the mess of slick on Zeb’s belly. “We’re not _that_ different from one another.”

“You know what I mean,” Zeb says, taking the towel from him and cleaning himself as best he can, for all that it’s a lost cause, another shower likely waiting in his near future.

Alexsandr climbs into bed at his side and stretches out, loose and languid, curling against Zeb’s side, close enough to lean in for a kiss. “I do,” he says, closing his eyes when Zeb nuzzles into him. “Aside from the obvious experience I've gained as your lover, I sat a number of biological science courses at the Academy, most of which covered reproduction. Then in more recent years, I’ve done a fair bit of reading on the holonet, including a nontrivial amount of pornography, of course, though I’m pleased that some aspects there were exaggerated, for obvious reasons.”

Zeb stops nuzzling him, his ears lifting along the surprise brushing through him. “You learned all that from watching lasat porn,” he says.

“A fair bit of it, yes.”

“When'd you do that?”

“Over the past several years, since Geonosis," Alexsandr says, calm as anything, stroking his hand down the line of Zeb's neck, tickling a little at the line of his collarbone. "I was ... _consumed_ by thoughts of you, after Bahryn, and I thought that if I were to sate my baser appetites, it might help me think more clearly.”

Well. Zeb leans into his touch, a quiet purr drawing up his chest. “Did it?”

“Considerably.”

Zeb rumbles a bemused laugh, stroking his hand down the length of Alexsandr's back, resting it on the back of his thigh, where _he's_ ticklish, his imagination providing him the most amazing conjecture of what Alexsandr might have looked like, lying in his bed aboard an Imperial star destroyer, his uniform trousers open and his hand on his cock, stroking himself to a holo of two lasat kriffing. It’s not a bad image. “You’re a man full of surprises,” he says.

“I’m a strategist, and a man hardly given to going into any situation under-informed,” Alexsandr says, his Imperial bastard voice at odds with the warmth of him, nude and relaxed as he is, draped over Zeb's side.

"Can't argue that," Zeb says. "Glad you did, though. Thought maybe it’d scare you off, the differences between us. Wondered why it didn't, the first time.”

“I'm hardly going to be frightened away from kriffing the man I love simply because he's _different_ from me,” Alexsandr says, sliding his hand down Zeb's chest and belly to stroke the silken fur covering his sheath, his fingertips gently tracing one of the ridges of nubs, softened now. “Even if I’d not known as much as I did about lasat anatomy or had pornography to spell out some of the possibilities for me. Surely you know I’m more persistent than _that_ when it comes to getting the things I want.”

Zeb chuckles. “That’s fair.”

“Honestly, I expected that you would never be more than a fantasy for me,” Alexsandr continues, his touch going against the grain of Zeb's fur, tickling just right. “I didn't expect you to want anything to do with me, even if I _were_ to survive my time as Fulcrum, which seemed unlikely, given that I was working as closely with Thrawn as I was. I'm pleasantly surprised that I was wrong in both areas. That things turned out as they have."

Zeb shivers under him, the slough of dread at the mention of Thrawn at odds with the thought of being someone's fantasy, of being _Alexsandr's_ fantasy, his cock stirring in its sheath, waking under the scant weight of Alexsandr's fingertips resting over it, still. "You're underestimating yourself pretty bad, there," he says. “Thrawn certainly did.”

“Mm.”

 _“And_ I'm gonna want to know more about those fantasies'a yours. One'a these days."

"I'm happy to share, if you’d like," Alexsandr says, "though we've put several of my favorites into practice already, so I don't know how many I'll have left."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. Today, especially."

Zeb's cock twitches, stretching up a little into Alexsandr's touch. _"Really_ didn’t know if that’d be your thing," he says. "Don't care what kind of research you did, getting kriffed by a lasat’s _gotta_ be a lot different from getting kriffed by a human."

"Better than," Alexsandr says. "I've always preferred to be the one receiving during sex, regardless of the species of my partner, but with you ..." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head slowly, his touch against Zeb's sheath _reverent,_ his palm cupping Zeb’s length as it swells to half-hardness. "My imagination didn't do you justice."

Zeb swallows. He's well past the age where he can get off again so soon, but the way Alexsandr is touching him and talking to him, he's tempted to try, at least. "Feel like I've won a helluva gamble here."

"Hardly a gamble," Alexsandr says. "I knew I’d like it, long before the first time you and I were intimate.”

“Oh yeah?” Zeb says. “You find a lasat to kriff on the sly you ain’t told me about?”

Alexsandr snorts. “Of course not,” he says. “As I said, I was consumed by thoughts of you, so I —”

He goes very suddenly silent, cutting himself off with a short, sharp breath, his entire body going deathly still, as tense as ever he is in battle. Seeing a vision, Zeb thinks, or — _god_ — seeing Kanan, finally, and _that’s_ crushingly awkward for the full second it takes Alexsandr to thaw into motion once again, curling in on Zeb’s chest as he does, his face pressed hard into Zeb’s ribs, the hand he’d had on Zeb’s sheath coming up to cover his eyes.

“Oh my _god,”_ he says into Zeb’s fur.

Probably not seeing Kanan, at least, Zeb thinks as he places an uncertain hand on Alexsandr's back, feeling the elevated pace of his heart reverberating through his tensed muscles. “You all right?”

“No. _No,_ I just —” Alexsandr burrows in a little more, making a noise that would be a _whine,_ were it coming from anyone else. “How I’d not realized —”

Zeb chuckles, bemused, and pushes himself up, Alexsandr coming up with him, his face burning a _brilliant_ shade of red. He looks at Zeb, mouth open, then closes it on a pained exhale, drawing his knees up and resting his forearms on them, cradling his face in his own hands. He draws a breath that sounds like it's equal parts laughter and a sob, scrubbing his hands over his face, then up through his hair, making it more of a mess than it was already from their coupling. 

“I’m not sure where to begin,” he says. “I, ah. Well.” He drops his hand down to his scarred thigh, tracing the line of the scar tissue with the tips of his fingers. “I took a leave of absence some months after our time together on Bahryn," he says. "I’d re-injured my leg, to the point that it needed surgery to address. I’d found a surgeon on Socorro who did excellent work — arguably the best of the three procedures I had — but because of the war, there was a scarcity of bacta on Socorro, so I was left to heal in the natural, traditional way. Very slow, shockingly painful. I was planetside for an entire month, recovering, positively out of my _mind_ on painkillers and still in a non-trivial amount of pain. 

"In such a state of grace, I was uninhibited and desperate for a distraction, and, well — one can buy anything on Socorro, you know — so I purchased a sex aid. I was in pain and scarred and utterly disinterested in the ramifications of finding a partner who would be safe enough to justify the distraction they might be able to afford me. And besides that, I’d been consuming something of a steady diet of lasat pornography, and finding a lasat partner wasn’t possible, so — well, from that, I'm sure you can guess what manner of sex aid I purchased.”

He looks over his shoulder to Zeb, pointedly dropping his hand once again to Zeb's sheath when Zeb gives him a puzzled look, humming quietly in his throat when Zeb puts two and two together and says _oh._

 _"Oh_ indeed," he says. 

“So _technically_ I _wasn’t_ your first lasat,” Zeb says, intending it as a joke and pleased when Alexsandr snorts and rolls his eyes, his mouth curving in a hint of a smile. “Ain’t gonna hear me complaining. Glad that’s what you were in the mood for. And that you liked it.”

"Mm. Yes, I liked it far better than I'd thought I might, as it turns out," Alexsandr says, “so much so that I brought it back with me from Socorro, to my assigned quarters —”

Zeb’s cock twitches, stretching up in its sheath, his earlier mental image shifting into something he’s fairly certain he’ll entertain the next time he’s left to see to his own pleasure, the thought of Alexsandr curled up in his Imperial bunk, trousers shoved down to mid-thigh, stroking himself to lasat porn while kriffing himself —

“— which means that it was in my quarters when I was captured by Thrawn,” Alexsandr’s saying, pulling Zeb from his fantasy, “and since Lyste was the one assigned to clear out my possessions ...”

It takes all of half a second for Zeb to process the implications of his lover’s words, realization dumping cold water across the warmth pooling in his gut when he does, the mental image of Alexsandr pleasuring himself sliding into that of Lyste rifling through his hero's possessions, driven by heartbroken fury, only to find a prosthetic lasat cock tucked under the pillow, and that, combined with the sight of Alexsandr blushing brilliance before him, draws a surprised laugh from his throat, Alexsandr sighing helplessly as Zeb laughs, joining him in his mirth after a moment.

“I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again,” he groans, leaning back into Zeb's shoulder, his voice light with laughter, fluttering past his throat. “There’s no _way_ he didn’t find it. It was hardly hidden.”

“Can you imagine if he’d brought that as his peace offering instead’a the meteorite?” Zeb chuckles. “Rolling that across the floor’a the hangar, begging us not to shoot him ...”

Alexsandr’s hands are back, covering his face. “I can, and I wish I were not, thank you,” he says into his palms. “Oh my _god.”_

“Think he kept it?”

“I don’t _want_ to know.”

“How realistic was it?”

“It was —” Alexsandr sighs, running his hand through his hair, his other hand dropping to Zeb’s sheath once again, stroking the fine fur there. “For a prosthetic, it was decently realistic. Anatomically very similar to yours, both in length and girth. Made from a high-quality synthetic, so the flex of it was — it was decent. More than, even.”

“Aw, you’re gonna make me jealous.”

Alexsandr rolls his eyes. “Hardly,” he says. “No matter the quality of it, there’s never anything like the real thing. It served its purpose, but in the end, it was little more than a distraction.”

“Glad you had it,” Zeb says, nosing at his hair, _“and_ that you liked it well enough to give it a go with me.”

Alexsandr waves his hand dismissively. “Strategist,” he says, and Zeb chuckles, kissing the shell of his ear. Alexsandr turns, humor and embarrassment warm in his expression still as he kisses Zeb on the mouth, his hand once again going to the long hairs at Zeb’s jawline, stroking them. “I suppose that explains Lyste’s assumptions surrounding my motivation for defecting, now that I think about it,” he says when he pulls away, leaning into Zeb’s shoulder once again. “I’d thought he was going off of the hours of personal logs I’d recorded, talking about you, but no. He had much more concrete proof of my attraction." He sighs. "I feel a fool.”

“Pretty sure the logs're what tipped him off, like you thought,” Zeb says. “Lot’a folks get off on the idea’a messing around outside their own species. You wouldn’t defect just to kriff a lasat. Anybody who knows you would know that.”

“Mm.”

“Glad you wanted to kriff one, though. This one, specifically.”

Alexsandr looks up at him, a real, _genuine_ smile on his mouth, warming his eyes. “As am I,” he says, leaning in close enough to reset his forehead against Zeb's. “Truly I am.”

_Author’s ruminations_

I have very little interest in babies, so please excuse any “hey that’s not how babies work” stuff in that first part. Just assume that that's how babies act when they're half human and half Twi'lek? And anyway, Jacen-the-baby will be in this story as little as I can _possibly_ manage, because — yeah, no, not my area.

Oh, you’d forgotten about that first part, so it doesn't matter? Good. That’s better for everyone, really. (Just kidding. I’m rather fond of this _entire_ chapter. Even the bit with the baby in it.)

And hey, look! We’ve arrived at my _favorite_ bit of smut of these two, not really for the smut so much as for the bit that follows. Poor Lyste. For the curious, _yes_ he found it, _no_ he didn’t keep it, and _no he doesn’t want to talk about it okay._ Also _no_ he didn’t put it into the final report that went to Thrawn, because — just — _oh god no._ Rather, he wrapped it up in one of Alexsandr’s socks and chucked it into the trash compactor, first chance he got. It’s tough being in love with someone who will never love you back, and this was just salt in the wound for him, the poor lad.

For once, I have a LOT of the next chapter written, so — barring life throwing at me the level of stress and upheaval it gave me _this_ week — I should have it out relatively soon. For now, enjoy these two drunkenly kriffing each other senseless, and take good care of yourself, yeah? I’m glad you’re here. Life is better with you here.

(Yes, I'm talking about _you._ Thank you for being you, and being you _here,_ with me.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Zeb and Kallus say goodbye.

**Brute Force**

_part xii_

Alexsandr recovers his composure by the evening of the following day, no hint of the crushing embarrassment from the night previous in evidence as Zeb joins him for supper, Lyste at Alexsandr's side, looking alert and curious and maybe just a little unsettled, his confusion jumping up a notch when Alexsandr orders a round of ale for the three of them straight away, lifting his mug in a silent toast to Lyste before drinking.

“I wanted to speak with you about your performance in Intelligence over the last year,” Alexsandr says once he's set his mug down, his tone as gentle as it ever gets when he’s got his clothes on and Zeb’s keeping his hands to himself, but Lyste sits up just a little straighter anyway, pulled as taut as if he had his old uniform on, still, the trousers getting fresh with him.

“Yes sir,” he says.

Alexsandr laughs softly. “None of that,” he reminds him. “Your work is consistently impressive, demonstrating both flexibility and creativity in your thinking, while simultaneously maintaining adherence to local regulations and cultural practices. Your colleagues respect you and like you, and as your superior, I have found great pleasure in working with you. I had expected as much, given your accomplishments and aptitude while you were enlisted, but you have continued to perform admirably, and that deserves recognition."

Lyste's ears have been bright pink since Alexsandr began speaking, but they bleed their flush across his entire face the longer it goes on, his expression embarrassed and pleased. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir," he says before turning just a shade darker, a nervous smile twitching the corner of his mouth as he adds, “I mean, thank you. It means a lot to me. Hearing it from you, especially.”

“I’m happy to be able to say as much, and more, of your work,” Alexsandr says, “though not without reason. I say all of this in the service of asking that you assume leadership of the Intelligence operation here on Lothal, if you would be willing, and interested."

His tone is warm, proud; not dissimilar to the tone Kanan used to take when he'd come back from a mission with a story about Ezra doing something clever, and the way Lyste responds, brightening so much that they could almost shut off the glowbulb overhead and still see the drinks sweating in front of them, is just as adorable as Ezra basking in his mentor's praise. He keeps his composure better than Ezra ever managed, his shoulders straight and tone even as he says _I would be honored to accept,_ but it takes effort, the whole thing bringing warmth pressed like a hand to Zeb's chest.

"Very good," Alexsandr says, lifting his mug and knocking it gently against Lyste's, then Zeb's, in a toast. "We'll let the others know tomorrow, then."

"Should get a cask'a whatever we're drinking here to take along with you," Zeb puts in after he's had a swallow, Lothal's local ale as rich and satisfying as ever. "Ain't a one'a your guys who'll hear this and _not_ insist on celebrating."

"Telling them can wait until the second shift comes on, then," Lyste says. "Duty comes first, and can be better-performed without unnecessary distraction."

Zeb snorts and lifts his mug to his mouth. "Yeah, he's gonna be a fine replacement," he says.

Lyste's face falls. "Replacement?" he echoes, his earlier happiness flaking away from his voice, and Zeb doesn't kick himself, but only because the table's too low for him to do so without bumping it with his knee. "I thought — you're not assigning me this post because you've been promoted?"

At Zeb's side, Alexsandr sighs. "No," he says. "I'm going away for a while. You need not worry, though, the promotion will still be yours when I —"

 _"No,"_ Lyste blurts, his voice far too loud, capturing the attention of some of the other patrons in the pub. He crumples in on himself a little as he looks around and sees the curious looks his outburst has gotten him, murmuring _sorry_ too softly for anyone he bothered to hear. "Please," he says, lowering his voice and looking at Alexsandr. "You _can't_ go."

“I see no compelling reason for me to stay,” Alexsandr says.

Lyste’s heart all but visibly breaks, his hand shaking a little as he reaches up to pull at his fur. “We _need_ you, though.”

“You very much do not.”

 _“I_ need, you, then.”

“We both know that could not be farther from the truth.”

“No, but I — I lost you once,” Lyste says. “When you were captured, when they said that you were to be executed, I thought —” He shakes his head, as if to dislodge whatever memory Zeb is doing his best _not_ to imagine. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you again.”

“I will hardly be _lost.”_

“No but you’ll —” He looks at Zeb, then returns his attention to Alexsandr, his chin lifted, his body drawn up as straight and serious as any Imperial Zeb's ever met. “I have loved you for years,” he says. “I know that you don’t love me back, and that you won’t, ever, but still, I want to be near you. To serve at your side, to protect you when I can, and support you as best I’m able.” 

More straightforward than Zeb was expecting he'd be, Alexsandr's discomfort with the whole thing palpable even without Zeb turning to look at him. “I appreciate your honesty, and your passion,” Alexsandr says, “but I made a promise to Garazeb that I am loath to break, which requires my absence from Lothal.”

“Let me come with you, then,” Lyste says. _“Please.”_

“I would, were I able,” Alexsandr says, “and if Lothal were not so desperately in need of a man of your talents.”

“There are others. I’m not special."

“I sincerely hope that is humility speaking, and not your honest opinion of yourself.”

“I’m _not_ special,” Lyste says. “Not like you. You —"

 _"You_ are, and always have been, a man of integrity, passion, and intelligence," Alexsandr says, raising his voice a degree, edging it up into Imperial bastard range. "There is not a sentient being on Lothal who knows you who would not say the same. If it takes my absence to teach you that, then perhaps I should have left Lothal months ago when Garazeb first suggested it."

"But —"

"I'll second that, for what it's worth," Zeb says, "the bit about you being good to have around. Been glad to have you at my back every time you've been there."

Lyste looks at him, then down at the tabletop before him. "Thank you."

"Ain't planning to be gone forever, either," Zeb says, "and where we're going ain't dangerous."

"Where are you going?" Lyste wants to know.

"Can't tell you that," Zeb says, "but I _can_ tell you, it'll be the safest place this one's ever been. Safest place in the galaxy."

Lyste frowns. "Such a place doesn't exist."

Zeb chuckles, lifting his mug to his mouth and drinking deep. "Sounds like there's an echo in here."

"I said the same," Alexsandr says when Lyste looks at them quizzically. "Garazeb assures me that there is."

"Where?"

"Someplace safe 'cause it ain't well known," Zeb tells him.

"You're really going to leave us," Lyste says, looking at Alexsandr with so much affection it makes _Zeb's_ chest ache on his behalf, "aren't you."

"I am, yes."

Lyste nods, punctuating his apparent acceptance with a sigh, then picks up his mug and drains its contents in one go. "Then I will need to start assuming some of your oversight responsibilities straight away," he says, setting down his mug and gesturing for a refill. "Lothal cannot afford a sloppy transition."

"I'm glad to see that I chose well," Alexsandr says. "Where would you like to begin?"

— — —

The pair of them spend the entire meal talking shop and drinking, after that, Zeb keeping quiet through most of it, his attention wandering anytime Lyste and Alexsandr aren't arguing about some detail or another, Lyste's ability to hold his own surprising and entertaining, as is Alexsandr's growing annoyance with each point he ends up conceding to the younger man. He goes back to nursing his mug of ale whenever the conversation cools back down into being boring and civilized, mulling over the conversation he'll need to have with Chava about Alexsandr, about Kanan. About Lasan, and how much the lasat of Lira San know about what happened there.

It's Lyste who draws him from his thoughts towards the end of the meal, just the two of them sitting at the table after Alexsandr's excused himself to the refresher to relieve himself of the ale he's consumed. Lyste sighs and takes a long drink from his mug, looking wistfully across the pub, watching as Alexsandr walks away, his gait not quite steady, his usual grace diminished under the alcohol he's consumed. Adorable, in an Alexsandr Kallus sort of way.

"It's not fair, you know," Lyste says, quietly.

"How's that, then?"

Lyste looks at him, flushed and earnest and clearly less than sober. "It's not _fair,"_ he says, again. "I've known him longer than you have. Been in love with him longer, and yet he's _never_ —" He sighs again, crumpling in on himself as he does. "Of all the humans in the galaxy, why'd you have to fall in love with _him?"_

Oh. Zeb chuckles, lifting his mug and taking a swallow. "Wasn’t intending to fall for a human, all told.”

“Then of all the _sentients_ in the galaxy, why —”

“‘Cause I _like_ that one," Zeb says, gesturing to the memory of Alexsandr walking across the pub, taller by a head than most of the patrons there, the warmth from the overhead glowbulbs bringing out all of the rich auburn of his hair. "He's got _spots."_

Lyste looks at him for all of two seconds before tumbling into genuine, helpless laughter, his eyes bright with tears he wipes away with the back of his hand when he looks at Zeb once again. "Yes, that’s true," he says, "I've always liked that about him, too," and when Zeb lifts his mug in a toast, Lyste answers him in kind, knocking his mug quietly against it.

They drink well into the evening, that night, and where Zeb isn't drunk by the time they're leaving the public house together half an hour later, he isn't sober, either, neither of his human companions faring any better, the quantity of ale they've consumed keeping a pink flush across Lyste's cheeks that Zeb can see even in the darker stretches between streetlights, Alexsandr reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes and missing, the first time, his annoyance with his own lack of coordination so compelling that Zeb is half-tempted to lean over and nuzzle him, only Lyste's presence stopping him. He entertains himself instead with thoughts of stripping Alexsandr nude and enjoying him before he washes off his scent in the shower, has his hopes pretty well set on doing just that by the time they've reached Alexsandr's assigned room, Lyste hesitating outside his own door after he's keyed in his lock code, his hand resting on the latch, unmoving long enough to draw Zeb's attention to him, away from his fantasies.

"You're sure I can't come with you, wherever it is you're going?" Lyste says.

Alexsandr nods. "I am."

Lyste straightens, as proud and commanding as any Imperial Zeb's ever seen. "Then Lothal will be in good hands until you return," he says, escaping into his quarters almost quickly enough to hide the tears in his eyes, his voice breaking in a sob just as the door clicks quietly shut behind him.

At Zeb's side, Alexsandr sighs and unlocks his own quarters. "I'd not meant for him to find out tonight that we're leaving," he says. "I'm afraid it rather took the shine from the news of his promotion."

"Yeah that'd be my big mouth getting in the way," Zeb says, embarrassed. "Sorry about that."

Alexsandr waves it away. "He's often the butt of the jokes in our division," he says, "which he endures with good nature and humor, but all the same, given the strength of his reaction, it may have been better for him to learn that we're going when his men aren’t around. I can only _imagine_ the teasing he'd have endured if they were to see him in such a state." He sighs, sitting on the crate at the foot of his bed and tugging off his boots. "I didn't anticipate him taking it so poorly, if I'm to be honest. He and I have worked together for years, and I've never given any indication that I had even the _slightest_ interest in him, beyond being his colleague. I thought certainly he'd have taken the hint by now."

"Well. Hope jumps forever, or something like that," Zeb says.

Alexsandr laughs softly. "It's _hope springs eternal,_ Garazeb," he says, "and at some point, such misplaced hope becomes a burden. Not just on him."

"Could see that, yeah." Zeb shrugs, watching as Alexsandr pulls off his sweater, his undershirt coming untucked enough from his trousers to ride up, showing a hint of his belly. Delicious. "Suppose if you feel _that_ bad for him, you could kriff him before we leave. Let him get it out of his system."

"If you're joking, it isn't funny," Alexsandr says, "and if you're not —"

Zeb chuckles. "I am," he says. "Don't think I could stand it, you doing that with him. Even if it were just a one-off.”

“No, I don’t imagine that would be good for anyone involved,” Alexsandr says. He sighs and casts a glance around the room, his shoulders curved under the weight of the hours of his day, of the alcohol he's consumed. “You’ve spoken with your contacts on Lira San today, I assume?”

“Sent word along, yeah. There’s a frigate going out that way with supplies in a week, has room on it for us to hitch a ride.”

“Good. And Hera? She seemed no different when I visited her at midday, so I assume she doesn’t yet know.”

Zeb snorts. “There anything you _don’t_ already know?” he says.

“Quite a bit, yes, since you're asking,” Alexsandr says, standing and unbuckling his belt, pushing his trousers down his legs without entirely losing his balance. “I did some digging today, looking to see if I could find any information about Lira San. I found nothing beyond some very old lasat religious texts, most of which were only partially translated.”

Panic laces its claws against the backs of Zeb’s eyes, stinging where the dry evening air had already been bothering him. He reaches up and rubs at them, saving himself from Alexsandr’s scrutiny. “Sounds about right. Been careful to keep info about it off the holonet, best we can.”

“That much I understand, but telling _me,_ here where it’s just the two of us —”

“Being paranoid, I guess,” Zeb says. “‘Sides, if I can hear Lyste crying in the next room over, then —”

“You _what.”_

Zeb lifts one of his ears, listening. “Well, not anymore, but — my point being, the walls here ain’t all that thick, and — I’ll tell you everything you want t'know about it once we’re en route. Promise.”

Alexsandr narrows his eyes, the wary, suspicious bastard Zeb first knew him to be strange, standing by their shared bed, stripped to his unders. “All right,” he says. “If you insist.”

“Probably don’t need to,” Zeb says, “but, uh. Thanks. For letting me be weird about this.”

Alexsandr relents, crossing the few steps between them to tuck his face up under Zeb's chin, his cheek pressed against Zeb’s throat. “I trust you,” he says, simply, sighing a little when Zeb rubs against him, his closeness drawing a purr from Zeb’s chest. "But for the record, this is driving me mad."

"Don't think I could tell the difference," Zeb says, growling a little when Alexsandr bites him in answer.

— — —

True to his word, he doesn’t ask again in the days leading up to their departure, though Zeb suspects it's in part due to the fact that he’s too busy to bother, working long hours at Lyste’s side, much to the younger man’s unfiltered delight, taking breaks only to visit Hera when he can, still desperately trying to reach Kanan, and to sleep whenever Zeb drags him away from the Intelligence office, often by force.

“You know your guys’ve got this without you running yourself into the ground over it, don’t you?” Zeb says on the third day, when Alexsandr trips over his own feet walking back to his quarters, saved from a faceful of hard duracrete only by Zeb’s hands, his pale skin sure to bruise where Zeb doesn't have the luxury of being gentle about pulling him back on his feet. “Down to a one of ‘em, they’re all —”

“— working just as hard as I am,” Alexsandr interrupts, “on a project I’ll not be describing to you in any detail until we’re well underway to Lira San.” He gives Zeb a sideways glare. “I’m _sure_ you understand my paranoid desire for secrecy.”

Zeb chuckles. _Petty_ generally isn’t a good look on anyone, but Alexsandr Kallus has the rare skill of making just about anything look good. “Course I do,” he says.

Alexsandr sighs; grumpy over Zeb's lack of response, Zeb would be willing to bet. “I’ll admit," he says after a moment, "I’m going to miss working with them. Lyste has a good team.”

“Won’t be gone forever, like we told him. I’m sure they’ll be more’n happy to let you come back to working yourself stupid once we’re back.”

“I look forward to it,” Alexsandr says, the seriousness of his tone significantly undermined by the yawn that takes over halfway through, his shoulders lifted in what Zeb suspects is an honest-to-god _pout_ when Zeb puts an arm around him, pulling him close and keeping him upright as they walk.

By week's end he's offloaded enough of his responsibilities that he puts up surprisingly little resistance when Zeb comes by earlier than usual to meet him, their frigate's arrival just announced in Lothal's orbit, the solid stone of second-guessing the decision to leave starting to weigh heavy in Zeb's stomach, washing a hard current against his resolve, eroding it as he walks. He's half-dreading and half-hoping that Lyste will raise one last desperate objection to Alexsandr leaving when he walks into Intelligence, but instead Lyste rises from his desk and offers a sharp salute, raising his voice just a little as he formally relieves Alexsandr of his duties, as steady and resolved as any commanding officer as he shakes Alexsandr's hand.

"Thank you for everything, sir," he says. "Please have safe travels, and return to us when you can."

"Thank you, _sir,"_ Alexsandr returns, a small but genuine smile curving his mouth. "We will see each other again soon."

He shakes hands with each of his men as he passes them by, only pausing to shoulder the bag Zeb hadn't noticed sitting by the door before turning to nod to them one last time before walking out, Zeb following behind.

“Have a good honeymoon,” Modig calls after them, the second Alexsandr's boots have left the room. "Don't do anything we'll read about on the holonet, after."

A surprised laugh catches in Zeb's throat, bleeding into a chuckle that earns him a weighty sigh from his lover, Alexsandr shaking his head as they walk. “I don’t want to hear a single word about it from you,” he says before Zeb’s more than opened his mouth to ask. "It's your fault, after all."

"Don't remember proposing," Zeb says, grinning at the scowl he gets over Alexsandr's shoulder.

Alexsandr sighs. “In the absence of any sort of concrete explanation," he says, "they have, as a group, decided that the two of us are marrying in private and taking some time together, as a couple, after. Since neither I nor their new commanding officer has seen fit to disabuse them of the notion — in my case, letting them believe it in preference to giving them reason to poke or theorize further, and in Lyste's case, for pure, _spiteful_ entertainment value — it _stuck.”_

“Wish I’d known," Zeb says, indulging in the humor warming the heaviness he's worn around his windpipe most of the day. "Ain't every day a man learns he's getting married. Would’a gotten some champagne or something for the flight out, if I had.”

“I think I'd rather our usual whiskey, if I'm to be completely honest,” Alexsandr says.

"Yeah, all right," Zeb says. "Got a point there."

They settle into a companionable quiet as they walk together to the hangar where the _Ghost_ is berthed, Alexsandr breaking from the contemplative shell wrapped around him only once he's boarded the _Phantom_ and taken Jacen from Hera, Jacen flailing happily at the sight of his favorite human, burbling happily in Alexsandr’s arms as Alexsandr sits with him at Zeb's side, leaning into Zeb a little as Hera takes them up and out of the atmosphere, the _Phantom_ shaking around them, her rumble a comfort against the thoughts crowding one another in Zeb’s brain, too many for him to pick any one to put to rest.

The frigate is bigger than he’d expected, the docking bay empty and quiet when Hera lands and opens the hatch, the hiss of the servos bouncing off the cavernous walls before settling into a crowded stillness, underlined only by the rumble of the frigate's engines, the scant murmur of conversation beyond, too quiet for either of Zeb’s compatriots to hear, he suspects. Hera joins him at the base of the ramp with tears in her eyes as she pulls Alexsandr into a hug, Jacen tucked in close between them, cooing at the newness of being trapped between his two favorite people. They stay embraced for a long, silent moment, the look of hurt in Alexsandr’s eyes as he tips his head to the side and rests it against Hera’s lek enough to make Zeb’s heart _ache,_ the desire to stay on Lothal flickering against the desire to go, strong enough that he's tempted to say so out loud for the first time since the notion of leaving occurred to him, months before.

“You look after Zeb for me,” Hera says as she pulls away from Alexsandr’s embrace, wiping tears from her eyes as she does. “Don’t let him do anything _too_ foolish or rash.”

“You have my word,” Alexsandr says.

“And _you,”_ Hera says, handing Jacen to Alexsandr and turning her attention to Zeb, all of her strength making Zeb’s ribs creak as she pulls him into a hug.

“I won’t let him talk me into doing anything too responsible,” Zeb says, hugging her back. “Promise.”

Hera laughs, the sound bitter with sadness, even muffled against the front of his jumpsuit as it is. “You’d better go before I change my mind and take you back with me,” she says, pulling away. “I’m tempted, you know.”

Zeb steps back and shoulders his bag. “We won’t be gone forever.”

“You’d better not be.”

“We won’t. I promise.”

Hera gives him a stern look, the kind of look he used to get from Kanan whenever he tried to bullshit the man, but she doesn’t say anything more, instead turning to take Jacen from Alexsandr and kiss Alexsandr on the cheek, giving the pair of them one last measured look before turning and disappearing back into the _Phantom,_ Jacen babbling happily in her arms.

They stand together in the docking bay in silence as Hera navigates the _Phantom_ out into the stars, the glow of the engines bright against yawning blackness, leaving spots in Zeb’s vision as he turns, walking with Alexsandr to their assigned accommodations, the room little more than a closet with a pair of fold-down bunks in it, each barely large enough for one of them, let alone both. Zeb folds down the lower of the two and sits on it, left to his own thoughts while Alexsandr goes off in search of a cup of caf, the hazy glow of Lothal just visible through the viewscreen, blotting out the pinpricks of stars beyond; more _home_ than he’d ever thought a world could be, after Lasan. Far moreso than he’d’ve expected Lothal to feel, all said.

Alexsandr saves him from _that_ particular thread of thoughts, coming back in with a steaming cup of caf, his jacket damp with Hera’s tears, still, his face pulled into a frown heavy with things Zeb suspects he’d not put to words even under threat of torture, their echo in Zeb’s own quiet melancholy loud in the stifling stillness around them. He's trimmed his fur back at some point, Zeb notices, made it even and neat. Recently, he thinks, the memory of it being longer the last time he nuzzled into it not more than a day old. Tempering the frown Alexsandr sends his way when he notices Zeb staring, Zeb chuckling softly as he looks away.

“What,” Alexsandr says.

“You trimmed your fur,” Zeb says.

Alexsandr lifts his hand to his cheek. “Yes, well. It was overdue.”

It’s not the right thing to do before meeting a group of lasat for the first time, but the gesture is, in human terms, respectful. Sweet, maybe. “Looks good,” Zeb says.

“Thank you.”

Alexsandr sighs and takes a drink of his caf, the way his upper lip curls telling Zeb it’s not a good brew, not to the standard Alexsandr holds for such things, his frown slipping into a three on the Alexsandr Kallus Glare Scale, creasing his forehead. Keeping him deep in his own thoughts.

“I don’t suppose,” he says, lowering his cup to his thigh after ten minutes have sunk down heavy between them, his voice even and low, "that you would do me the kindness of telling me about Lira San, now?"

“Happy to,” Zeb says, “though I’d be lying if I said I ain’t curious what theories you’ve come up with. I _know_ you have some. Betting half a dozen, at least.”

“I have, of course. Though hardly that many.”

Zeb leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “All right,” he says. “What's at the top of the list, then?”

Alexsandr hefts a long-suffering sigh. "Alderaan," he says. "You're taking me to Alderaan."

Zeb’s ears flatten. “Uh. Alderaan’s —”

“Gone, yes, I’m aware of that, thank you,” Alexsandr says. _“New_ Alderaan, if you will. Wherever it is the survivors have gone to rebuild.”

"Huh," Zeb says. “Didn’t know there was such a place.”

The glare rises to a four. "Neither do I, but —" Alexsandr drinks some of his caf. "That isn't it, then."

"Isn't, nah."

A moment. "New Scarif."

"Nope."

“New Vestar.”

“What makes y’think it’s a new-something?”

“A _feeling,”_ Alexsandr says, enunciating the word like he’s offended by the notion of it. "Don’t tell me it’s New Lasan," he says, after a long sip of caf, his attention focused on the stars. "As if such a thing would even be possible."

Zeb freezes, every inch of his fur standing on end. Leave it to Alexsandr Kriffing Kallus to figure it out simply by _guessing._ He looks at his lover sidelong, doesn’t trust himself to fully face the man, but the way Alexsandr has turned to look at him, eyes gone _huge_ in the quiet between them, tells him well enough that he’s given it away.

"The Force tell you that or something?" he says.

“No, it didn’t — that isn’t how — are you —” Alexsandr draws a shaking breath, covering his mouth with his free hand. “You’re serious. Aren’t you."

Zeb frowns. “I wouldn’t joke about this, no."

“Is it — I assume there are other lasat there?”

“Yeah. Couple’a million, from what they’ve told me.”

“A couple mil—” Alexsandr swallows. _"How?_ After Lasan, the Empire said — lasat have been listed as critically endangered since, because they — because _I_ — killed —”

"Well, they _thought_ they'd killed all of us," Zeb says. "Ain't the first time the Empire's been wrong about something."

"They _said_ — they _commended_ me for —" Alexsandr sets down his cup with a shaking hand, staring out beyond the transparisteel reflecting his look of disbelief back at him, silent and still as if he were part of the ship itself. “Garazeb, you _cannot_ take me there,” he says, after a moment, his voice quiet, barely audible over the hum of the ship.

“Why’s that.”

Alexsandr turns an incredulous look his way. “Wh— you of _all_ people know why not. I gave the order that _killed —”_

“It was war. You did what you did. It's in the past.”

“But —”

“They know, if that helps,” Zeb says, the words sticking to his fangs, uncomfortable and sour in his mouth. “About Lasan, about your role there. Told 'em before we left Lothal. They know already.”

Alexsandr breathes out a halting exhalation, treating Zeb to a desperate look before gathering himself up like broken, chipped bits of armor, his posture resuming his old Imperial control, straight and stiff, only the rise-and-fall of his chest where his breathing elevated still betraying the emotions flitting through him. “Then I will gladly accept whatever punishment they see fit to —”

“They ain’t gonna _punish_ you,” Zeb says.

“They _should.”_

Zeb forces a chuckle that burns his throat. “Said about the same to Kanan, back when he and Hera first took me in and I told him about what happened on Lasan, about my role in failing to stop the fall'a the planet. Said I'd been doing what I'd been doing as penance for not doing enough on Lasan, and I, ah. Heh. I got told off for it. Kanan said there’d be nothing anybody could do to me worse’n what I was doing to myself, day in and day out.” He nudges Alexsandr’s knee. “He’d say the same about you, y’know.”

 _“You_ were knocked unconscious while doing your sworn duty to protect your home,” Alexsandr says, “whereas _I_ gave the order that killed hundreds of _thousands_ of —”

“And they ain’t feeling it anymore,” Zeb says. “You _are._ And you risked everything to do what was right once you figured out which way was up. You learned. Changed." He bumps the back of his fingers against Alexsandr's knee. "Makes a difference, y'know."

“That is _not_ good enough.”

Zeb shrugs. “Is for them. For me. Ain’t supposed to be enough for you, anyway.”

Alexsandr looks at him a moment longer, then turns away, as still as death as he watches the stars streak by. After a few minutes, he stands and leaves, the sound of his retching in the adjoining ‘fresher muffled almost well enough for Zeb to miss it.

He’s collected himself well enough by the time they’re nearing the end of the second run through hyperspace, his eyes a little red, his face pale. So focused on whatever's going through that head of his that he jerks like he’s been electrocuted when Zeb reaches out to brush the back of his wrist against his hand to get his attention, his voice rough as he says _sorry,_ his face darkening a little as he does.

“Coming up on the last jump,” Zeb says when the smear of stars outside their viewscreen settles out into the blackness of space, the glow of the star cluster barely visible from their room. “Wanna show you something before they jump us through. C’mon.”

Alexsandr stands, following him wordlessly out into the narrow corridor, down to the galley at the head of the frigate, his eyes going wide as he looks around, taking in the brilliant swirls of the star cluster, the frigate shivering around them, thrusters firing to resist the pull of the storm.

“Any’a this look familiar to you?” Zeb says.

Alexsandr nods. “Of course. I chased your ship here, years ago.”

“That you did.”

“We reported you destroyed, after. Believed it, too, until reports came in some time later that you were back and causing mischief.”

Zeb chuckles. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard our work described as _mischief_ before.”

“You found a way through, I’m assuming?”

“We did, yeah. Using the Force and a bo-rifle, if you’ll believe it.”

Alexsandr pulls his attention from the storm swirling before him long enough to look up at Zeb. “Were it anything less ridiculous, I might not,” he says. “Kanan devised a safe way through, I assume.”

“Not exactly,” Zeb says, embarrassment twisting up his spine at the thought of telling Alexsandr about how they found their way to Lira San, about his own role in it. “Ezra tells it better’n I do. Don't think I could do it justice if I tried.”

Alexsandr narrows his eyes, but doesn’t push, returning his attention to the view before them. “How many know of the route, then?” he says.

“Not many. Captain and first mate here are friends’a Hera’s. Sworn to secrecy,” Zeb says. He shrugs at the dubious look his lover is giving him, all of his own misgivings at others knowing the location of his people’s world reflected in Alexsandr’s eyes. “Ain’t like we expect it to stay hidden forever,” he says. “Gotta make allowances here and there.”

“I see,” Alexsandr says. He’s quiet for a long moment, crossing his arms over his chest, his gentle strength folded in on itself, defensive. “I understand now why you were so careful to tell me nothing about our destination, beyond its name,” he says. “I would have done the same, in your place.”

Zeb hums softly in his throat, his chest swelling a little, Alexsandr’s perceptiveness always good for catching him off-guard. “Thanks,” he says. “Though that wasn't entirely — I thought maybe you wouldn’t be willing to come along, if you knew. If I told you when you could still back out.”

Alexsandr looks at him, silent and serious for a long, captured breath. “Where I would like to think I would have kept to my word and come with you, even if I had known,” he says, “I'll confess, I might have been tempted to break it.” He returns his attention to the star cluster. “You chose well.”

He takes a sudden step backward to keep his balance as the frigate makes the jump a few seconds later, the star cluster smearing brilliance across the viewscreen for the split second before darkness blends into the light, the frigate rumbling happily in her hyperspace lane, the gravitational pull of the cluster well behind her. Alexsandr doesn’t _need_ Zeb to help him regain his balance, but Zeb gets an arm around him anyway, maybe rubbing the side of his cheek against Alexsandr’s temple, just because he’s there and he _can._

“Told the group we’d meet ‘em up top,” he says after a moment, Alexsandr pulling away to stand on his own, uncomfortable as ever with being affectionate in public too long. “C’mon. Shouldn’t be long, now.”

Alexsandr gives the swirl of stars warped by hyperspace one last look, then turns, nodding curtly as he does. “All right,” he says. “Lead the way.”

He follows Zeb down the corridor to the central lift, his shoulders squared and face carefully cleared of any emotion, more nervous than Zeb's ever seen him before. Looks a little like Ezra like that, uncertainty hidden under a brave face, the muscle of his jaw flexing under his fur as they walk together to the lift, its harsh lights throwing into awful relief all of the worry Alexsandr's hoarded behind his eyes, the weight of it drawing shadows around the thin line of his mouth. Zeb nudges his wrist after the silence has stretched thin enough to tear, dragging the back of his index finger across Alexsandr's fingers and offering the man a smile he hopes communicates at least a fraction of the affection he feels for him. Alexsandr answers him with a sigh, taking a quarter step sideways as he does, close enough that it's not much more for him to lean into Zeb when Zeb puts his arm around him, keeping him close.

"Hey," Zeb says when the lift pings softly, slowing at the head of the frigate. “Do me a favor'n close your eyes.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Close your eyes,” Zeb says again, this time reaching up to cover Alexsandr’s eyes with his other hand. “Trust me.”

“With my life,” Alexsandr says softly, his eyelashes brushing the barest breath over Zeb’s fingers, eyelids fluttering a little but staying closed, his steps uncertain as the lift doors open, Zeb guiding him out, onto the bridge.

Lira San is just as beautiful as it was the first time Zeb saw it, the hazy atmosphere warmed by its star bright against the backdrop of space, clouds covering the beauty below, the cities and forests and oceans and mountains. Home to his people, the world that produced all of the songs and stories and prayers he learnt as a kit, now offering itself as home to him, to the man he loves. He takes his hand from Alexsandr’s eyes once they're in the best position to see as much of the planet as possible, looking away from Lira San to watch as Alexsandr opens his eyes, the glow of Lira San’s star reflecting in his eyes, gone wide as he takes it in, the fullness of it, presented right before him.

“This's it,” Zeb tells him. “Lira San.”

Alexsandr steps forward, Zeb’s hand falling from his shoulder, his mouth open and hands shaking a little as he rests them on the railing before him, taking in the sight of it. “Garazeb,” he says, “I can’t —”

The sound of the cockpit door sliding open interrupts him, Chava and Gron flanked by two men Zeb thinks he maybe met the last time he was planetside, stepping into the bridge, all of them looking curiously at Alexsandr, who goes deathly still as he turns, his eyes going even wider than they’d been already as he takes in the group of lasat before him, staring back at him.

“The Warrior,” Chava announces, toddling over and reaching for Alexsandr, tugging at his arm hard enough that he kneels, mute still. She touches him, feeling his face, his fur. Rests her hand over his chest, her eyes closed as she feels his heartbeat. “The Warrior _and_ the Fool.” She looks at Zeb. “Led by the Child. Good. _Good.”_

Zeb doesn’t roll his eyes, but it takes effort, Chava's dramatics chafing against his sensibilities just as badly as they did the last time he saw her, frankly _embarrassing_ in front of his lover, especially as solemn and still as Alexsandr is. “Alexsandr Kallus," he says, "this is Chava the Wise.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Alexsandr says, bowing his head.

“You are late coming home,” Chava tells him, smacking him on the head with her staff, making Alexsandr startle, dropping back into a low defensive stance, one of his hands going up to rub the spot she hit. “We sent for you many cycles ago.”

“You — what?”

“The Child of the Ashla, as prophesied,” Chava says. “Late to come home, but home you are. Come! We have much to discuss, and we have already begun preparing the ritual.” She turns, toddling off once again, only Gron hesitating, dipping his chin in a nod to Zeb before he turns to follow his priestess, leaving Zeb to reach down and pull Alexsandr to his feet, the look on Alexsandr’s face that of a man who hasn’t a clue what’s going on but suspects he might be having a very bad time of it, all the same.

“Probably ain’t the time to tell you that’s the Force-user I had in mind to help you out with talking to Kanan,” Zeb tells him. “She doesn’t get any less eccentric, either. Been that way the whole time I’ve known her. Which is my whole life.”

“Yes, I gathered she was the one when she said she sent for me,” Alexsandr says as they walk. “I’m eager to speak with her, eccentricities aside.”

“You’re a braver man than most,” Zeb tells him, and Alexsandr snorts softly, his hand brushing Zeb’s as they step into the lift.

“I am a man honored to be brought among your people,” Alexsandr says, his voice soft in the closeness of the lift, and serious, as heavy as the bag on Zeb's shoulder, “so long as they’ll have me.”

“They will,” Zeb says. “Promised you, didn’t I? You’re safe here, and wanted.”

Alexsandr swallows, his throat bobbing as he does, and shifts, lacing his fingers with Zeb’s as the lift pings, drawing to a halt. “Thank you,” he says, his voice tight in his throat. “That means more to me than I suspect you may ever know.”

_Author’s ruminations_

Fun fact: the working title for this chapter was “Oh, poor Lyste.” Because seriously, poor Lyste. But, fear not! Good things are happening to him in the background. You just don’t get to see them yet ‘cause you’re stuck with Zeb as your PoV and Zeb, for all that I love him, isn’t always the most observant. Oh well.

What more to say? I can’t imagine Kallus being comfortable going to Lira San. I love how he _whips_ around to look at Chava in that very last episode of _Rebels,_ and how she and her lasat entourage all look at him like _no really, it’s okay, we want you here._ Is there any greater blessing than the grace of those around us reassuring us, as often as we need to hear it, that we’re wanted, that we fit? If there is, I haven’t yet found it.

(You’re wanted, here, in case no one has told you that recently enough. There’s room for you, and you fit. A line from [a poem I love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HWQ08XAYbY) (and have memorized and quote at the very slightest provocation) is, “When it comes to love, the only thing I’m certain of is that you are the best thing that has ever happened to you, whoever you are.” That is True, and anyone who would tell you otherwise is _lying.)_

/quietly pushes the soapbox back under the desk and wanders off to see about chapter ... what, 13 now? Yeah. Something like that.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one that takes place on Lira San.

**Brute Force**

_part xiii_

Lira San is cooler than it was the last time Zeb visited, the air heavy and thick from recent rain, a relief after the hours he’s spent breathing recycled air aboard the frigate, the years before that filled with the dust-heavy air of Lothal's grasslands, the midafternoon starshine reflecting in the water droplets clinging to every surface as they disembark from the ship and take a transport out of the spaceport to the village. It’s smaller by a factor of ten, at least, than the city Zeb visited the last time he was planetside, its architecture more like the buildings he remembers from Lasan, stone and wood and metal, more function than form. More beautiful than the plain rough stone architecture on Lothal, though, the leaves of the trees lining the streets gone yellow and orange and red amidst their evergreen companions, playing off one another in a riot of color. Similar enough to the copper and blonde of Alexsandr's hair and fur that Zeb catches himself smiling over it, shaking his head when Alexsandr notices and gives him a curious look.

"What d'you think?" he says instead of answering Alexsandr's unspoken question, gesturing broadly to the street they travel down, not terribly busy but not empty, either, the sight of lasat walking around, going about their day, strange to Zeb’s eyes. Surely strange to Alexsandr's as well.

"It’s beautiful," Alexsandr says. "Strikingly so."

Zeb's chest swells with pride, drawing his posture up a little straighter, the look on their companions' faces telling him that they heard Alexsandr's evaluation, too. A good answer, and honest, at that, Alexsandr quiet as he sits at Zeb's side, only the way he curtails a sigh ever few minutes speaking to the discomfort he’s brought with him from the frigate, tight in his thigh when Zeb brushes his hand against it, wanting to offer comfort. Alexsandr tenses in answer, crossing his legs away from Zeb, his face carefully controlled as he watches their surroundings go by. Not in any sort of mood Zeb can draw him from, in Zeb's experience, not publicly anyway, and Zeb is denied the chance to try, Alexsandr swept away with Chava and her two compatriots the moment the transport comes to a stop outside a plain clay building labeled simply _Sanctuary,_ Gron stopping Zeb when he tries to go along with them.

“She’s been impatiently awaiting his arrival for participation in her rituals, Captain,” Gron says. “Normals aren’t invited.”

 _“Normals,”_ Zeb repeats.

Gron looks abashed, his expression and body language startlingly similar to that of Lyste's whenever Alexsandr is dressing him down for something, for all that Gron is taller, thinner, and purple, offering Zeb a wan smile. “I apologize, Captain,” he says. “I’m not sure what our kind are called, elsewhere.”

Zeb gives it a moment's consideration, then chuckles. "Neither do I," he says. "Been around enough Jedi, you'd think I would."

"Only if they've bothered to name us," Gron says, his voice taking on a dark tone, but he covers it quickly enough, straightening his posture to cover the slip. “Lady Chava asked me to show you around while she’s busy with The Child. If you're up for it, that is.”

“The Ch—” Zeb chuckles. “That what you’re calling him, is it? He’s past forty standard years, y’know.”

“Ah, so he _is_ a child,” Gron says, grinning widely enough that Zeb laughs out loud.

Gron doesn’t move quite as quickly as he did the last time he and Zeb served together, his gait slowed by the years passed since then, but his stamina’s no joke, maintaining for hours as he shows Zeb around the village, talking his ears into felt over the cultural similarities and differences between Lasana and Lira Sani lasat, the politics of the village versus the city, of the planet as a whole, even offering a little bit of gentle gossip over supper before he shows Zeb to the modest cottage he and Alexsandr have been provisioned, the sky warmed into a deep orange bleeding crimson across the clouds shifting and moulding against one another, maybe promising more rain later, maybe not.

Zeb finds he doesn’t especially care about the vagaries of the weather, tired as he is, gathering all the energy he can to thank Gron for looking after him, the weariness from his day coming out of the quiet of the front room of the cottage to take its due the minute he’s shut the door, the meal he ate not an hour earlier grumbling in his belly as he strips out of his jumpsuit and investigates the ‘fresher. The hot water is a blessing against his tired body, the steam carrying away what little coherent thought he might have had left, thoughts colliding with one another, spilling rumination into conjecture of where Alexsandr might be, and what he might be doing. If he’s doing all right. He dries himself and dresses only as much as he needs in order to pass for _decent_ on the off-chance that someone might need him urgently, vague sense of responsibility propping him up on the sofa rather than in the frankly luxurious bed, guilted by the notion that he really _should_ stay up until his lover comes home, his sense of duty at odds with the firm embrace of the sofa, the cushion at the far end tempting him to lie down, to rest his eyes, even if only for a few minutes.

He's nearly given in by the time Alexsandr comes in a scant hour later, looking just as tired as Zeb feels. Moreso, perhaps, his posture crumpling into a slouch that carries him to the sofa the second the door has closed behind him, his boots slumping over one another as he yanks them off and tosses them carelessly to the floor, tipping over into Zeb's arms at just the slightest tug, his eyes closed already when Zeb gathers him close, nuzzling into his temple.

"You look like you've had a day of it," Zeb says when Alexsandr sighs and turns his face away, as clear an invitation as he’s ever given for Zeb to nose at his fur, to bite him gently at the line of his throat. 

"By some definition thereof," Alexsandr agrees on a long sigh. He lifts his hand, fumbling a little in his attempt to stroke Zeb's ear, the pad of his thumb going to the thick, downy fur at the base instead, massaging just right to draw a purr up Zeb's breastbone. “Lady Chava is overwhelming.”

Zeb chuckles. “That’s a nice way’a putting it.”

“She knows more about the Force than I know about anything else. _Everything_ else,” Alexsandr says, something in his spine popping audibly as he twists out of Zeb’s arms, just enough to pull his sweater over his head, the scent of him when Zeb leans in close again _intoxicating,_ heady and rich in the fabric of his undershirt, “and she seemed intent on dragging from me everything I might know about it — which took all of five minutes, given how little I _actually_ know — but that didn’t deter her from _prodding_ at me, all the same, and whenever I told her I _didn't_ know something, she'd —” He shakes his head. “It was a lot to take in all at once, is what I mean to say.”

A gross understatement, Zeb suspects, but he leaves it uncontested in the space between them, Alexsandr drifting to stillness in his arms, save for the movement of his fingertips stroking Zeb's fur like a nervous habit, sluggish under the hours of his day, the burden he's carried through them.

"You talk to her at all about Kanan?" Zeb says after a long moment, the thought carrying the words for him.

"I did. She's eager to meet him."

"She know how to do that?"

"No. She'd not heard of such a thing, and didn't much like how little detail I was able to give her about it," Alexsandr says. "But if I can get Kanan to appear before me while she's present, he should be able to instruct her. To share what he learnt from his master.”

“Mm. Kanan’ll love that.”

“Yes,” Alexsandr says. “I'm excited to make the introduction.”

He stays still only a moment longer before pulling away from Zeb's embrace, quietly folded in on himself as he strips out of his clothes and crosses the room to the 'fresher, flooding the hallway with light for just a second before closing the door behind him. He's in the 'fresher long enough for Zeb to compel himself off of the sofa and into bed, his skin tense and grumpy with the earliest feathers of sleep when Alexsandr joins him, his skin warm from his shower, seeping warmth up through Zeb's fur, welcoming back his lost sleep with touch as gentle as a lover's kiss.

Sleep rises and falls along the contours of dreams over the deep hours of night, none staying with Zeb long enough for him to remember when he rises to full consciousness in the unforgiving light of early morning, barely dulled by the cloth cover draped across the bedroom window. Warmer than the light of Lothal's primary star, and brighter, but his mind is slow to recognize the difference, the reality of waking on his people's homeworld with his lover lying at his side, spread out across him in a luxurious sprawl afforded them by the size of the bed, far larger than Zeb's bunk or the standard-issue bed of Alexsandr's quarters, the room quiet where they're sealed off from others, no Lyste in the next room, no one to bother them in the communal 'fresher — 

_Impossible,_ he thinks, brushing the morning sun from Alexsandr’s fur with the pad of his thumb, the light reflecting amongst the curls bleaching them golden, warm against his skin, his spots bright and impossibly numerous, a star map for Zeb to chart in the cradling haze of half-sleep, buoyed up on each breath Alexsandr draws, each lift of his arm where it rests across Zeb’s chest. This strong, beautiful man, beloved to him, _of_ him, soft and vulnerable beneath the embrace of the quilt he must have pulled up over them at some point in the night, the time-softened fabric slipped to his waist, his strength resting only in the weight of him, heavy for a human but slight for a lasat, intimately known in every strike Zeb has parried, every hold he’s lain beneath, captive to each heartbeat trapped in the warmth of his joy.

He drifts, letting the silence pull along the grain of the wakefulness persisting against the sleep-numbed fuzz slowly lifting from him, feathering across the sunlight, trickles of thought about what the day might hold for him just starting to seep into his consciousness when Alexsandr stirs, stretching against him, all of his strength rallying into a full-body tremor that cessates in a yawn, his cheek warm where he rubs it against Zeb’s chest, nestling into Zeb’s embrace and going still once again, his hand flexing a little where it rests against Zeb’s belly.

“What time is it?” he says after a long moment of nothing but the slow rise-and-fall of his ribs under Zeb’s hand.

“Dunno. Early, I think.”

“Mm.” Another yawn, Alexsandr flexing his legs, his toes bumping against Zeb’s calf as he does. “I told Lady Chava I’d meet her at dawn for meditations.”

“Uh —”

Alexsandr chuckles softly, tipping his head down to rub his nose against Zeb’s fur. “Relax,” he says. “She said she’d kill me if I showed up before the tenth hour. Relayed to me _in detail_ precisely _how_ she’d put an end to me, no less.” He yawns again, stretching out his arm to drape fully across Zeb’s body, his fingers curled around Zeb’s ribs, kneading there. “She’s quite the strategist, as it turns out, when it comes to murder.”

Zeb laughs, jostling Alexsandr onto his back and leaning in to kiss him. “Just out’a curiosity,” he says, “how’d she say she’d do it?”

“Mm. You don’t want to know.”

He reaches up and threads his fingers through the long hairs along Zeb’s jawline, pulling until Zeb leans down close enough to kiss him again. “What will they have you doing while I’m in the Sanctuary today?” he says just as Zeb feels himself starting to emerge and harden against his thigh, thoughts of climbing on top of his lover for an early-morning kriff just starting to solidify into a tempting proposition.

Zeb bites him on the chin and leans back. “Planetary defense strategy, from what I understand of it,” he says. “External intel-sharing. Some Intelligence work, too, if you’ll believe it.”

“I do,” Alexsandr says. “Always wondered why you weren’t on my team. We could have used your skills.”

“Heh. Haven’t got the patience for it. And it wouldn’t’a been _proper,_ either, me sleeping with my commanding officer,” Zeb says, and Alexsandr smiles. “They’re wanting to make sure they’re ready whenever Lira San finds its way onto a star map, and I’m an outsider, so I've got experience and insights the others don't. Ain’t exactly a military operation here, but their bigger cities ain’t defenseless. Not interested in seeing ‘em hold their own against an attempted invasion, but I think they could if they had to. Just off’a what I saw yesterday.”

“I’d be happy to help, if I can,” Alexsandr says.

“Would love to have your eyes on their planning, if we can get you away from Chava,” Zeb says, “which not a one’a us is brave enough to try, so you’re on your own, there.”

“I’m not sure I could escape her if I wanted to, either, honestly,” Alexsandr says, “though neither would I want to. She knows so much, and the things she sees me capable of doing, once she's taught me ...” He sighs. “It makes me wish I were twenty-five years younger.”

“That’d make it _awful_ awkward for me to want you like I do,” Zeb says, leaning in to give him the sort of kiss he used to fantasize about sharing with the man, slow and dirty.

"Yes," Alexsandr says into the kiss, tangling his fingers in Zeb's fur once again. "That would be more a loss than what I would stand to gain."

It takes Zeb longer than it should to parse his lover's meaning, his heart swelling and breaking and stitching itself back together once he has, overwhelmed as he sinks down into another kiss, slow and easy, Alexsandr quietly voicing the sigh he breathes against Zeb's cheek. He pulls away to rub the bridge of his nose against the line of Zeb's jaw after a long moment of kissing, always more interested in the lasat way of showing affection than that of his own kind, his hands moving like rainwater down Zeb's ribs, unhurried and constant. He shifts his leg to drape it more fully over Zeb’s hip after a moment more, his thigh rubbing against Zeb’s sheath, drawing him steadily up from it, Zeb’s cock stretching eagerly towards the solid heat of Alexsandr’s arousal, pressed firm against him. Always so much faster and easier for humans, Alexsandr often at full hardness even before he’s woken each morning, his species’ apparent readiness to copulate more arousing than Zeb expected it would be when he first learned of it, years before the thought of Alexsandr Kallus sharing his bed ever crossed his mind. But it is, and has been, the thrill of it drawing his breath faster as Alexsandr rubs against him, moving as if to scent him, to mark him, dominant and demanding even as he lies back and pulls at Zeb, his legs spread wide in invitation for Zeb to settle between them, the inside of his thigh pinked already where he’s been rubbing himself on Zeb, his underwear stretched tight over the thick line of his erection.

 _“Oh,”_ he breathes when Zeb takes the hint and settles in the spread of his thighs, his hands going to Zeb’s arms as he crosses his legs at the base of Zeb’s spine and _squeezes,_ pulling Zeb in close enough to draw a shudder of pure, electric _want_ through every nub on Zeb's cock, hardening against the thick line of Alexsandr's erection. _“That_ is —”

He punctuates his aborted thought with a sigh, moving his hands higher to wrap loose around Zeb's neck and _pull,_ bringing himself up off of the mattress enough to bite at the tensed line of Zeb's throat, leaving him unmoored, the bare base of his shoulders scrubbing against the bedsheets in time with the rhythm Zeb sets, rutting against him. Loose and warm and receptive, the strength and sensuality of him intimate and uninhibited, drawing up pulses of arousal through Zeb’s body, burning in the backs of his thighs as he dips down for each thrust of his cock against Alexsandr’s, his nubs going stiff as he works the two of them against one another, every inch of his cock tasting the slicked fabric of his underwear, the muted hardness of Alexsandr’s arousal beneath and against him.

He could come from this, _just_ from this, he thinks as Alexsandr bites him and arches under him and breathes his name into his fur, the simplicity of it edging on ridiculous, maybe a little embarrassing at his age, until Alexsandr shudders against him and drops his head back into the pillow with a tortured moan, his mouth wet and pink where he’s been mouthing at Zeb’s chest, tasting and devouring him, jerking his legs against Zeb’s lower back. Riding him, _using_ him, and at that, Zeb’s entire world pulls in on itself, swirling into a desperate knot of anxious, grasping arousal, licking frantically at each nub of his cock, on every breath his thrusts drive from Alexsandr’s lungs. Orgasm takes him on a bitten off gasp of Alexsandr’s name not a minute later, the rush of it pulling his spine tight against his belly as his cock jerks and floods his underwear, his breath catching in his throat, leaving him to rut against Alexsandr in dizzy desperation, the feel of Alexsandr's fingers digging into his shoulders echoing the ache of each aftershock that shudders up his cock, tipping the room around him as he tumbles down from it, the mattress soft against his palms, keeping him from crushing the man beneath him.

"Sorry," he breathes against Alexsandr's neck, dropping his head to rest it against his shoulder, drinking in the scent of him, the heady salt of his sweat mixing with the slick of his cock, subtle under the scent of Zeb's own ejaculate smeared between them.

Alexsandr shivers under him, lifting his hips in a shuddering bid for friction as he does. “I’m not,” he says, his voice low, carried on warm breath tickling the curve of Zeb's ear, his legs slipping from Zeb's waist, freeing Zeb to sit back and _look,_ taking in the sight of Alexsandr spread out before him, messy with his ejaculate and flush with arousal, his cock pressed firm against the wet fabric of his underwear. _Delicious,_ Zeb thinks, the thought that he’s never tried bringing his lover off with his tongue just starting to take hold in his mind when Alexsandr reaches between them to push his underwear down past his hip bones, the waistband tight against the root of his cock, and starts to stroke himself, staring at Zeb with all the intensity of a voyeur as he does. Reaching out to _touch_ with his other hand as he does, his fingers splayed wide, each tracing a different stripe down to the lighter fur of Zeb’s belly, then lower, his palm gentling over the shape of Zeb’s cock pushed tight against the mess of ejaculate in his underwear, firm and full, still, his fingers tickling the round of each nub he can reach. Tracing shapes over and between them, his touch steady and intent, near _worshipful_ as he masturbates, his gaze focused and unblinking until his belly tightens and his eyes roll back and close, his cock jerking in the slick grip of his palm and fingers, sending thick ropes of ejaculate across his chest as he sucks in a sharp breath and holds it, his orgasm striped bright white against the flush of his skin, the copper of his fur, dripping down the heaving breath rising and falling on the tide of his ribs. His hand messy with it, after, dragging wet against Zeb’s side as he reaches for him, pulling him down for a messy, open-mouthed kiss.

 _"Thank you,"_ he breathes against the long hair of Zeb's jaw when he has to tip his chin to the side to catch his breath. "That was wonderful."

Zeb nips at him, at the curve of his ear, chasing the bite with a gentle swipe of his tongue. "Didn't do anything, really," he says.

Alexsandr hums, falling back against the sheets as if holding himself up is suddenly more than he can manage. “Mm,” he says. "More than plenty."

He brushes away Zeb's curious frown with a kiss pressed to the corner of Zeb's mouth, adjusting his underwear back up over his cock as he climbs out of bed and crosses the bedroom to the 'fresher, his hands coming up to cup the mess he's made of his own chest, keeping it from dripping.

By the time he comes out again, his skin pink from the hot water and his hair wet and finger-combed back, uncannily similar to the style he wore as an Imperial, he’s slipped back to his usual self, controlled and contained, his brow furrowed just a little, whatever thoughts he’s been mulling only lifted a degree when Zeb walks past for his turn with the ‘fresher and drags his claws across Alexsandr’s back, hard enough to leave marks. So like Kanan would get from time to time, sunk seven layers deep into himself, and only Hera could pull him back from it, often drawing him out with little more than a touch, usually an affectionate tug on his hair.

That Zeb is able to elicit the same response from Alexsandr, the barest brush of his hand against Alexsandr’s as they part ways at the Sanctuary earning him a small but genuine smile, swells in his chest like the clouds gathering overhead, filling Zeb’s lungs as he breathes the mid-morning air, his ears pulling back in the warm embarrassment of being so _ridiculously_ besotted with his lover. His embarrassment only deepens when it dawns on him that there are other lasat walking along the streets he follows to the compound Gron showed him the day before. Lasat who, unlike the other species he’s lived among, will know what he’s feeling just based on his body language, so he drops his gaze to the sidewalk before him and pulls a frown up to his nose in the hope of hiding the warmth still fluttering in his chest, the notion that the expression is one he _absolutely_ learned from Alexsandr doing the flutter in his chest no favors whatsoever.

His day passes at a pleasant pace, filled with maps and strategies and the surprising struggle of using Lasati again, his mouth slow around some of the words, Basic persistently trying to sneak in to replace his mother tongue. That the accent of the Lira Sani lasat is different enough from his own and Gron’s and the handful of other Lasana working in the compound does him no favors, either, has him wearied from it by the end of the day, the evening sinking into early darkness, daylight draped heavy with rain. The promise of storms coming chases off most of their team before he’s got more than a small headache formed at the base of his skull, leaving him to lean against the doorway of the compound, watching the rain when Gron joins him with a cup of hot tea, the heat and flavor a blessing as Zeb drinks it.

"Y'look happy, Captain," Gron says to him — in Basic, bless him — his voice low, private between them in the cushion of the rain.

Zeb drinks his tea. “S'pose I am,” he says. “Think I’ll jinx it, saying as much?”

Gron chuckles and shakes his head. “Nah. Never was one to believe that superstition,” he says. “I’m glad to see it, you happy. Was worried y'wouldn't like it here, if ever you came out to settle in with us."

Zeb frowns, looking away from the peace of the street before them, the quiet of it swelled in the rain, more tranquil than any world he’s visited in recent memory. “What’s not to like?”

He gets a sideways look for his troubles, the sort of expression on Gron’s face that gives away the difference in age between them, their difference in rank in the Honor Guard notwithstanding. “We were all surprised you only brought one’a your family with you,” Gron says. “Thought you might bring your kit with you, and his parents. Which you can, you know, if you want. We’ve got room for ‘em.”

Zeb's heart catches, snagged on the sharp edge of memory before his rational mind catches up well enough to slot Ezra into the jagged rip where his daughter hasn't been in years, her face blurry to him, faded under the scar tissue of grief and years long since passed. "Nah," he says, "Ezra ain't my — he, ah." He clears his throat, his voice threatening to betray him. "We lost him, and his dad," he says, "'bout a year back."

Gron's face falls. "My sympathies, Captain. The Empire?"

"Yeah."

Gron lifts his hand and places it between Zeb's shoulderblades, gentle and reverent; a warrior’s touch, as familiar to Zeb as some of his most distant memories, but it’s grating against his skin now, offers him no comfort, instead echoing the ache chipping at his sternum, drawing up threads of the man Gron knew him to be, the man Zeb's not been in years. He endures as long as he can, then thanks Gron for the tea and excuses himself out into the chill of the rain, the droplets tickling at the edges of his ears, turning them down flat against his skull, his fur silvering with raindrops as he walks.

He doesn't _mean_ to go to the Sanctuary, not intentionally, but that's the route his feet know to take him as he walks so that's where he goes, his mind spiralled and fractured between thoughts of what the Empire might do if they were to learn of Lira San's existence and thoughts of Hera and Jacen and Sabine back home on Lothal, worry joining the rainwater to drip down his fingers as he stops at the front doors of the Sanctuary, slow to come back into himself and recognize where he's ended up. The narthex is empty when, after a moment of furious mental debate, he decides to go in and have a look around, no guard stationed to protect the wooden doors separating him from the inner rooms, no automated security to warn of his presence or anyone else's. No locks securing the doors either outside or in, the sheer vulnerability of it chafing against decades of paranoia gathered like callouses against his sensitivities, unwelcome memory rising and wrapping itself across his mind’s eye, images cobbled together from conjecture of Alexsandr’s informant-turned-lover on Lothal strolling into Intelligence and shooting him, despite the soldiers working at his side. So much easier to repeat, now that he's going about his days unarmed, with little more than a diminutive old woman and her walking stick to protect him.

Surely they’d have better security if there were need of it, he tells himself as he looks around, but it sits ill with him all the same, the floor of the narthex hard and unforgiving under his tailbone when he sits, placing himself strategically between the two sets of doors, positioned just off-center enough to not be readily visible _and_ to have the element of surprise, should he need it. He looks around, once he's settled, soaking in the sparse detail of the space around him, the shadows dulled in the rain-soaked quiet of the evening, blending into the silence only faintly lifting and falling along the cadence of Chava’s chanting, barely audible even when he lifts his ear and focuses, listening. No hint of Alexsandr's deep timbre mixed into the sound, no matter how carefully he listens for it, but he can well enough imagine the man sitting cross-legged in one of Chava's chalk circles while she chants at him, doing his best to take the whole thing seriously, the same reverence he showed her on the frigate certainly on full display once again.

His tailbone’s gone numb well before the doors to the Sanctuary open, shattering the silence, his spine compressed into a solid pillar spidering complaints into the twinging the muscles of his back at even the slightest movement, but he's kept his vigil, as stubborn as Kanan used to accuse him of being, his presence drawing a look of surprise when Alexsandr pokes his head out to scan the narthex, his eyebrows lifting into the fall of his hair.

"Hey there," Zeb says, lifting his hand in a little wave.

"Hello yourself,” Alexsandr says, stepping fully into the narthex and looking around. “How long have you been sitting there?"

Zeb shrugs, a mistake that sends a shriek of spasm up the right side of his back, fanning across his shoulder. "Dunno. A while.”

"Lady Chava sensed you were out here, and in pain,” Alexsandr says. “I thought —" He shakes his head. "Is something the matter?"

"Nah." Zeb pushes himself to his feet, his back and neck and hips and knees all screeching at him for the time he’s spent sat on a hard wood floor, but it's worth it for the feel of Alexsandr's Force gift clasping him where he's faltered, steadying him as his body catches up and gets used to the idea of him standing without tipping over. “Finished up with the others, thought I'd come by and keep watch while you'n Chava did your thing," he says, pleased when Alexsandr comes over to steady him in the more traditional way, his hands lingering just a moment too long at his sides. "Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’ve not,” Alexsandr says. “We've finished for the day. I'm free to go.”

He takes his hands away from their place at Zeb’s sides as he speaks, sinking them into his pockets as they leave the Sanctuary, his head bowed against the rain coming down with unbridled enthusiasm, what light there might have been long sunk into the dark grey of rainy evening, drawing a welcoming glow from the restaurant they patronize for their supper, Alexsandr rubbing his hands together for warmth as they wait for their food to arrive, tensing a little when Zeb reaches over to take them in his own to warm them.

“Weird seeing you without your gloves on,” Zeb says, once Alexsandr’s relaxed, flexing his hands a little in Zeb’s grasp, working the blood back into his long, clever fingers, chill even through Zeb’s fur. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you out’n about without ‘em.”

Alexsandr frowns, looking down at his hands, completely concealed in Zeb’s grasp. “I must have left them at the Sanctuary,” he says. “Lady Chava objected to me covering my hands. Insisted I take them off.”

“Ah.” Zeb gives his hands a squeeze. “How’d it go with her today?”

Alexsandr shrugs the words off his shoulders, onto the floor behind them. “It went well enough, I think,” he says. “I’d expected that she’d want to further evaluate my abilities and potential, but that wasn’t the case. She had a ritual prepared ahead of my arrival, and I ...” He frowns. “I’m not entirely certain what I contributed to it, if anything, but she didn’t ask me to leave once it was over and the others were allowed in, and she permitted me to stay after the lessons she’d prepared for them, and let me meditate with her, so.”

“Probably a good sign,” Zeb says. “What others was she letting in?”

“She offers lessons in meditation and focus for local lasat who’ve manifested Force-sensitivity,” Alexsandr says “Children, mostly, with a few adults.”

“Huh. How many of ‘em are there?”

Alexsandr smiles. “Seven,” he says, “and another will join them in a few years, once she’s old enough to sit still through the exercises.”

“Seven?” Zeb repeats. “Seems like an awful lot'a Force-sensitive brats for such a small town, doesn’t it? Or are they coming in from other parts’a the planet?”

“All local, from what I understand,” Alexsandr says. “They aren’t — it’s not like being selected to join the Jedi Temple on Coruscant was. Lady Chava turns none of them away, regardless of how strong their connection to the Force seems to be. All are welcome. She — and all of the lasat here on Lira San, from what I understand — have viciously guarded against the integration of the Force into their religious practices. Force-sensitivity here is no more highly regarded than having exceptional wit or physical strength. Little more than a skill she’s helping the next generation to hone.”

“Y’don’t say.”

Alexsandr nods, pulling his hands free of Zeb’s. “Very different from the way things were done on Coruscant.”

“Different from how they were on Lasan, too.”

“Mm. Well. It’s a pleasant change to see, and good to be learning alongside others who know little about their abilities, though I’ll admit it’s humbling to be outpaced by someone young enough to be my own child.”

Zeb chuckles. “Kanan’d say it ain’t a competition.”

“And he would be right,” Alexsandr says, his expression warming to match the small but genuine smile on his face, one of his hands finding its way to Zeb’s thigh and squeezing, his palm warm through the leg of Zeb’s jumpsuit.

He takes his hand back when their server comes over with their meal, the steam rising from the bowls curling around the lights hanging from the ceiling overhead, carrying the rich scent with it, making Zeb’s mouth water. It’s spicier than he’s used to, once he’s had a bite, but nothing he can’t handle, nothing compared to the angry red broth bathing Alexsandr’s meal, its spice drawing a deeper flush across Alexsandr’s face as he eats. His mouth is warm from it still when Zeb steals a kiss from him as they walk afterwards, the street mostly deserted, courtesy the rain, giving them enough privacy for more affection than Alexsandr is usually willing to tolerate in public, Zeb’s mouth tingling from it after. He chuckles when he realizes what’s happened, earning a curious look from his lover, Alexsandr slipping his arm around Zeb’s waist when Zeb drapes an arm across his shoulders, craving his closeness.

“You're spicy," Zeb tells him, maybe making a bit of a show of licking his lips as he does.

“Not _too_ spicy, I hope,” Alexsandr says, all sincerity, the look of concern he’d maybe been hiding behind his hair easing into the comfort of a mild glare when Zeb laughs.

“Nah, ain’t bad when it’s second-hand,” Zeb promises him. “Dunno how y’can stand to eat all that hot stuff, though. Must be a human thing.”

“Well, not for _all_ humans,” Alexsandr tells him, “and I very much doubt they’d offer a dish like that here if some lasat didn’t like it.” He reaches up, touching his lips with his fingertips. “I’m pleasantly surprised they have food with some kick to it, here. I’d worried they’d not, given your aversion to such.”

“Sounds like you’re calling me a wimp.”

“Your words, not mine,” Alexsandr says. He sighs, leaning into Zeb a little more as they walk. “Ezra would have loved the dish I just ate. It was _delightfully_ hot.”

“Ha! Yeah, that kid —” Zeb shakes his head. “Y’know Sabine once took it into her head to find something Ezra’d think was _too_ spicy. Brought back all kinds’a awful food for him to try from the different places we’d go, and we’d all gather ‘round to see how he did. Only came close with one, a shriveled up little fruit ‘Bine found on ...” His ears curl back, searching memory. “... Tatooine, I think it was, actually. Looked like it should’a been sweet, just from the outside. Had Ezra crying after just a bite. Wasn't even a very big bite, either.”

Alexsandr’s eyebrow is arched when he looks up at Zeb, his eyes bright with mischief. “I’ll confess,” he says, “I’m curious to try it myself, now. Do you remember its name?”

Zeb grins. “Ghostberry,” he says. “Appropriate, if y’ask me.”

“Uncannily so.”

Alexsandr moves his thumb over the curve of Zeb’s ribs, worrying them through his jumpsuit, the touch soothing and meditative, its rhythm carrying the quiet between them, punctuated by the breeze twisting the rain. “I'll confess, I had briefly harbored a faint hope that Ezra might be here, on Lira San,” he says after a long moment, his voice low, “that his presence here may have been the catalyst spurring Lady Chava to reach out for me. I'd not mentioned it to you, so as not to get your hopes up, but I had _so_ hoped that —" He sighs. "Kanan warned against hoping for anything based on my abilities. He said that it would lead to bitterness and resentment, but that is _considerably_ more difficult to put into practice than it is to describe and aspire to.”

“Haven’t yet heard you or Kanan say anything about the Force that ain’t near-impossible for any normal creature to achieve, if I’m honest,” Zeb says.

“Indeed. All the same ...” Alexsandr lifts his shoulder in a shrug, small enough that it doesn’t jostle Zeb’s arm loose where it’s draped around him, his fingers tightening a little around Zeb’s ribs, keeping him close.

They’re soaked to mid-thigh, both of them, by the time they’ve returned to their cottage, the storm starting to pick up real fervor, throwing itself with unbridled enthusiasm against the windows, rattling them in their frames, the sound of it thrilling, like something out of the adventure holos Zeb’s never quite outgrown. He settles himself onto the sofa after a hot shower he doesn't take alone and opens the mapping document Gron’s team gave him to review, pleased when Alexsandr joins him, pulling him back to rest against his chest and reading over his shoulder for a good hour before he moves to the floor and closes his eyes, his breathing slowing and deepening as he meditates.

“Have you been back to Lira San since I chased you here, initially?” Alexsandr says after a good long silence, his eyes closed still, his tone dark enough to lift the blanket of sleep just starting to settle across Zeb’s focus.

Zeb sets the datapad aside and rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Nah."

Alexsandr opens his eyes, his mouth sinking into a frown. "Not even once?"

"Not even once," Zeb says. He shrugs in answer to his lover’s frown. “What? Had other things to do, y'know how it’s been. Imperial occupations to overthrow. Planets to liberate.” He reaches down to brush the back of his toes against Alexsandr’s shoulder. “Defectors to fall for.”

The frown evolves into a glare. “Garazeb. Honestly.”

“What?”

“This is your _home._ And you’ve not been back once, in all those years?”

Zeb shakes his head. “Nah. Ain't like Lira San's _home,_ especially. It’s where my kind are, sure, but that don’t make it home.”

The glare settles, steady as Alexsandr shifts, moving to face him more fully. “Did my presence — was I part of the reason you stayed away?” he says, awkward, not quite meeting Zeb’s eyes as he does. “Because if I was —”

“No. Never even occurred to me,” Zeb says.

Alexsandr drops his gaze, his chin bumping over a small nod as he closes his eyes once again, dragging the weight of the air in the room into himself, holding it in his lungs as he sinks back into his meditations.

He sleeps poorly that night, jerking hard enough as he dreams to drag Zeb to consciousness, his eyes wild and body tensed by the time Zeb's managed to bring him awake, the choked, strangled sound of his breathing as he comes back to the reality of his surroundings loud and awful in the closeness of the bedroom. It’s no better the night following, Alexsandr shying away from Zeb's touch even after he's fully awake and aware of his surroundings, murmuring apologies when Zeb takes the hint and sits back, giving him space to catch his breath. By the time he's waking them both with nightmares the third night, he abandons sleep altogether, grumbling something Zeb only half-catches as he pushes himself up in to a seated position on the bed, his face pulled into a tired frown as he closes his eyes to meditate, but he voices no objection when Zeb curls around him and goes back to sleep, and Zeb only drifts towards consciousness again when Alexsandr crumples down onto the mattress after what feels like a long time, fair game to be snuggled.

Alexsandr sleeps on the sofa the night after that, and the night that follows that one as well, his body curled in on yet another nightmare when Zeb comes out to check on him at first light following his third night not sleeping in bed, only the tension binding him prisoner in his own subconscious keeping him from spilling onto the floor, the sofa woefully undersized for his long legs, his broad build.

“Hey there," Zeb says once he's brought Alexsandr awake, squatting down to put himself at eye-level with the man. “'Nother bad one, huh?”

Alexsandr sucks in a shaking breath and rubs his hand over his face. “Yes,” he says. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Didn’t,” Zeb says. He yawns, reaching out to drag the backs of his claws over the curve of Alexsandr’s knee. “You look like you’re about to fall off’a this thing.”

"I've slept on worse," Alexsandr says on a wearied sigh, gathering his legs up closer to his chest, which does little in the way of making him fit any better on the sofa.

“Doesn’t mean you’ve gotta sleep on it here,” Zeb says.

Alexsandr snorts softly and snakes his arm free from the blanket, cupping Zeb’s cheek and pulling until Zeb’s gotten the hint and scooted closer to the edge of the sofa, Alexsandr kissing him slow and easy as soon as he’s close enough for it. He drapes the edge of the blanket over Zeb's shoulder when he leans in to nuzzle into him, their bodyheat mingling beneath it as they touch one another, Alexsandr’s simple, easy affection aching like a bruise as Zeb leans in hard against the edge of the sofa, touching as much of his lover as he can reach.

"Come back t'bed with me?" he says when Alexsandr pulls away from him to yawn, the hours of sleep he's not gotten obvious even in the low light of the room.

Alexsandr's hand flexes where he's rested it at the back of Zeb's head. "I'd love to."

He probably intends to walk to the bedroom himself, but Zeb’s too tired to be patient, or restrained, so he scoops him up in his arms, blanket and all, Alexsandr's surprised yelp as he's unceremoniously hoisted making him smile.

"I'm quite capable of walking, you know," Alexsandr grumbles after he's been deposited on the mattress, bunching the blanket to the foot of the bed before lying down, wrapping his arms around Zeb when Zeb stretches out at his side, cuddling close.

"Yup."

"You're ridiculous sometimes."

Zeb nuzzles into him. "That I am."

Alexsandr sighs, the sound curved warm around a smile Zeb doesn’t need to see to know it’s there. “I love you, you know,” he says, his voice soft. "I don't often say it, but I do. Very much."

"Love you, too," Zeb says, his throat tight around the words, and Alexsandr answers him with a kiss pressed to his chest, stroking his arm in a slow, steady rhythm, the motion hypnotic and soothing, blessed in the warmth of them mingling under the quilt, the grey morning wrapped around them.

Zeb’s nearly dropped to sleep when Alexsandr jerks under him, sucking in a sharp breath and digging his fingers into Zeb's forearm, hard enough to bruise. Ripped awake by another dream, Zeb realizes as he lifts his head, his arm rising and falling on the desperate breath Alexsandr drags into his lungs, his heart pounding so hard that Zeb can feel it better than the rising staccato of his own.

"Y'okay?" he slurs, nosing clumsily at the fur of Alexsandr's chest.

Under him, Alexsandr draws a long, shaking breath, his hands relenting, leaving the memory of his fingertips aching in Zeb’s arms. "Yes," he says. "Just a dream."

“Must’a been a bad one.”

Alexsandr swallows. “Yes.”

“What’d y'dream?”

"Nothing I haven't dreamt before."

Zeb lifts his head, looking blearily down at his lover, taking in the paleness of his face, the dark shadows seeping down from his eyes bleeding into his spots, blurring them. "Yeah?"

"Mm."

"Tell me 'bout it."

“I doubt that would do either of us any good.”

“Tell me anyway?"

Alexsandr draws a slow breath, dragging his fingertips up the length of Zeb's arm against the grain of his fur, soothing it back again with a brush of his palm, the rest of him halted into unnatural stillness. So quiet that Zeb's about to open his mouth and tell him to forget it when he next speaks, his voice low, as if he could keep it from the shadows gathered in the corners of the room.

“I've told you about the battle on Onderon, I believe," he says. "About what happened to my men there.”

"Y'have, yeah."

A moment. Alexsandr blinks slowly, his gaze tracing the patterns in the ceiling. “I've dreamt it, off and on, for years," he says, finally. "The fight, the explosion. The blaster shots, one at a time, each extinguishing a different voice. They say the nightmares are an expected side effect of enlisting and serving, but they're unpleasant nonetheless, and that experience, more than many others I had in service to the Empire, made a significant and lasting impression on me."

An understatement, chilling in its simplicity. Zeb nods. "Yeah."

"For the past few nights — well, the past week, now, I suppose — I've dreamt that battle," Alexsandr says. "Not an unusual occurrence, as I've said, save that — lately, rather than my men being executed, it’s Hera and Jacen I see being shot. Then Sabine. Sometimes Lyste. More recently Ezra, trying to shield Kanan, to protect him. I try to stop it, but I’m never able to move properly, as if I’m waist-deep in water, and by the time I’ve raised my blaster and taken the shot that kills the mercenary, it’s always too late. I'm never able to stop him in time."

Zeb's heart freezes, its weight pushing the air from his lungs. "Are y'sure it ain't a vision?" he says. "Or a — what's that called, a premonition? The Force telling you something bad's about to happen back home?"

"It isn't," Alexsandr says. "I had the same worry, and wanted to return immediately, but Lady Chava reassured me that —"

"That ain't good enough," Zeb says. "If she's wrong, and something's coming —"

He tries to push himself up, but Alexsandr stops him, his hands and his Force gift gentle, stilling Zeb's panic with steady, even pressure. "Garazeb," Alexsandr says, "relax. I trusted Lady Chava's reassurances as little as you do, so I contacted Hera to be sure all was well, and Lyste, in case his team had learnt something Hera didn't yet know. They both assured me that everything is fine, and Lothal is as ready to resist an attack as ever they were. Well-enough prepared for us to have ample time to return and assist, should a threat emerge. As if the two of us could make much of a difference, anyway."

"We could," Zeb says.

"And we will, if we're needed," Alexsandr says. He gives Zeb a gentle tug, rolling onto his side and moulding himself around Zeb's body once Zeb's relented and lain back down, his body warm, heavy where he drapes his arm across Zeb's chest, his leg across Zeb's thighs. "It's just a dream. A deeply disturbing, _awful_ dream, but just a dream nonetheless. Nothing more. Likely exacerbated by my being on a new planet, spending my days engaged in something so _strikingly_ different from what I'm used to." He curls his fingers, his nails dragging short, grounding lines across Zeb's side. "Possibly also a side effect of the absence of caf in my system. I've not gone this long without since I was … oh, probably twelve or thirteen standard years."

Zeb turns that over in his head a few times, nagging worry chewing at the edges of Alexsandr's reassurances. "How'd you get so big?" he says, eventually. "Thought caf was bad for humans before you're grown. Stunts your growth, or something."

Alexsandr breathes amusement across Zeb's chest. "That myth is as old as the galaxy itself," he says, "and has no scientific backing to support it."

"Huh." Zeb frowns at the ceiling, absently dragging his claws up and down the line of Alexsandr's back. "Maybe we should go back, just to check for ourselves," he says. "Make sure everybody's okay, get some caf to bring back here with us. _If_ we come back. Jus' to be sure."

Alexsandr shakes his head and leans in, kissing Zeb's pectoral and rubbing his cheek against it, his fur catching more than usual, short-trimmed as it is. “It’s hardly serious enough to take you away from here,” he says.

"If it's giving you bad dreams, though —"

"As I've said, I don't think that's the primary influence," Alexsandr says. "And even if it is, it's nothing I can't handle. They are, as I said, just dreams."

That sounds like a lie, to Zeb, Alexsandr's description of what he's dreamt rising in his mind's eye the minute he closes his eyes, dragging a chill down his spine, and he should say something about it, he thinks, offer comfort where the conversation has drifted and staled, Alexsandr's tone too flippant for the weight of it. But the words don't come, trapped under the thick haze of dread only lessened by the feel of Alexsandr settling into stillness at his side, so Zeb keeps his mouth shut, struggling to take Alexsandr at his word, to trust that he's right, as he usually is.

He sinks slowly back down into the nothingness of sleep, the numbness of it spreading through him like poison, almost heavy enough for him to not notice when Alexsandr pulls away from him and climbs out of bed, his footfalls silent as he leaves the bedroom.

_Author’s ruminations_

It’s the dreaded Lira San chapter! I’m not a big fan of creating worlds in my fanfiction, so I’ve not done much of it here. There is _so much_ of this chapter that I wrote, then deleted, then re-wrote, then deleted, then re-wrote — god. And like, all the funny and uplifting stuff got cut because hi I’m falling apart IRL and I’m taking my favorite ship down with me as I go.

I honestly don’t know how this chapter ended up being nearly 9k words in length when I deleted like ... _all_ of it, but here we are. It also feels like it's short because like … nothing happens? ~~And then I went in and deleted the ACTUAL action from the ending and stuck it in the next chapter ah hahaha _what is happening to me_.~~ I don't know, maybe it's all right and I'm just sick of staring at it? Maybe not. I really don't know anymore. This story — and writing in general, lately — I swear to god.

I hope you enjoy this installment, regardless of my own feelings towards it. I love these men _so much,_ and I’m so grateful to have their world to visit when mine is hard to live in. 


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